Vanessa kept to an agenda. She listened to all of the section heads as they gave their reports, or what they called “the actual,” and kept the meeting rolling when it bogged down into generalities or-and I was surprised at this-gossip. I was amazed that these paper-pushers were in awe of the actors, hosts and anchor-people they had placed before their cameras. It was as though they had forgotten the parts they had played in making these faces so well known.
She introduced me at the beginning of the meeting. There were no smiles of welcome. No drums, no trumpets, no cheers. Executive assistants come and go too rapidly to pay much attention to the incumbent.
Vanessa asked for a progress report on “the proposed” from each of her section heads. Each, after his or her fashion, tried to bamboozle Vanessa into believing that progress had been made since last time. Vanessa was very clever in finding out which projects had made progress and which were standing still. Her idea of a meeting wasn’t just to rehearse the status quo, but to shake things down and slip through or around the bottlenecks. There were attempts at levity initiated by a few of the more secure people at the table, but they were killed off with a hard look from Vanessa. Even references to crazy Bob Foley, the independent runaway technician, couldn’t find a smile in the room.
“We’re still dangling on the Plath-Hughes special, Vanessa. The agent just isn’t returning my calls. It must be chaos over there.” This from a bright-eyed youngster who leaned back in his chair to the balancing point.
“Rod,” Vanessa said, staring anywhere but at him, “that’s where things stood last week and the week before!”
“I know, but you know the Brits.”
“Who have you got in London?”
“In London?” He was stalling.
“That’s the city we’re talking about. Who are you talking to there?”
“Vanessa, I’m-”
“Rod, your place at this table is under review. Do you understand me? Now get up to speed. There are no Jonahs on this ship. Audrey, since Mr. Sinclair is unable to help us, what can you tell me?” And so it went, on and on. Vanessa was critical of everybody. Even the few who could report progress had, according to Vanessa, missed a percentage of their advantage. I started to think how glad I was not to be working for her, when it came over me with a chill that I was. Was I staring at my future as I surveyed the smiling, unhappy faces opposite me?
The final item on the agenda was finding a replacement show for Reading with Renata. Vanessa gave credit to the producer who had thrown together a tribute show for the coming Sunday. But now it was time to find a permanent replacement. All around the table, it was thumbs down on another book show. Rod Sinclair may have saved his bacon when he told Vanessa about a fashion-show pilot he’d just seen.
“Okay, Rod. You run with it. But keep me informed.”
Afterwards, when the meeting broke up and Vanessa’s minions went to check whether their names were still printed on their doors, I got the feeling that I’d been through a document shredder. And they weren’t even aiming at me. After a washroom break, Vanessa sat me down in her office for a chat. While Sally went for fresh coffee, I thought I’d better clear up the unpleasant business of the omissions in my first conversation with Vanessa.
“Vanessa, I can’t be much good to a client who isn’t straight with me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“At 52 Division, I caught up with the story of the spent shotgun shells found in your locker. Did you think that if you said nothing the fact would blow away?”
“I can explain that. You’re not angry with me, are you?”
“You’re bloody right I’m angry. Do you have any idea how important those shells are?”
“They might have cleared me if it wasn’t for those goddamned shells!” She stopped there, as though she was measuring the importance of other things she’d saved me from knowing. “I was going to tell you, Benny, but we never got back there.” She moved a hand to rearrange a tress or two that had fallen over her forehead. “All right, they found the damned shells in my locker and say that they’re like the ones that the murderer used on Renata.”
“Were they yours?”
“Of course not! I’ve never owned a gun. And these shells didn’t have my fingerprints either. There were no fingerprints. Or at least, that’s what they say. Benny, tell me that you’re not going to be cross at me. Right now, the way I feel, I couldn’t bear that.”
“While we’re at it, why did you keep a metal locker in your office? That wasn’t picked out by your friend at Holt’s.”
“It was part of a pressure play. I’d ordered a proper safe for important papers, but Ted Thornhill was delaying things. You’d think a CEO would be above that kind of pettiness, but you’d lose your bet. I bought the locker myself, for practical reasons and to embarrass Ted. The week before Renata was shot, Ted spotted the locker, and I saw by his red face that I’d won the round. There, Benny, that’s the whole truth.”
“You’d better tell me the whole truth from now on. If you want to stay alive, that is. Maybe you have other plans?” She made contrite noises and underlined them all with body language, knowing that that was the sure way to distract me. Then she began to berate me about neglecting her. I reminded her that I’d been out of her sight only a couple of times, notably when I was checking in with the police working on the case. Then she told me to leave the solving of Renata Sartori’s murder to the cops; my job was keeping her, Vanessa, alive. She was no longer the supplicant asking for another chance, she was back in the driver’s seat, not a motion wasted.
“But,” I argued, “finding Renata’s killer could be a shortcut to the same end.”
“Yeah, and the cops are working that corner, Benny. Don’t crowd them. You stick with me. Watch my back. That way I’ve got two strings to my bow, and I might still be alive in September.”
“Okay. I hear you. But, there are a few avenues I’d like to try out on my own, Vanessa. I know how to stay out of the way of the official investigation. They’ll know all about me anyway.” I saw the smile fade from her face. I was sinking into the same quagmire of disapproval that had caught Rod with his pants down. I knew I had to talk fast or I was going to line up with the other losers. “Look, Stel-” I did that on purpose to underline our special relationship. “You have told me practically nothing about what happened. I don’t know where you live, who knew you lived there, how long you’ve been in the neighbourhood or anything else. I need to know more about Renata: who her friends were, who your friends are. All that stuff. Where is your place in the country? when did you drive up there? who saw you? when did you get back? where did you buy gas? where did you stop to eat? Your life may be hanging from a thread woven from your full and unedited answers.”
She was angry at me now. Partially because she thought she had reached a position where nobody could talk to her like that and partially because she knew I was right.
“Okay, Benny, get out your notebook.” I grabbed a pad from my new desk. “I live on Balmoral Avenue. That’s two south of St. Clair, off Avenue Road. The place is owned jointly by me and my husband. I’ve been there for five years. Everybody at CBC, CTV and all the other places I’ve worked knows the place. I like to give big parties. Everybody in this building knows the house, the garden and maybe even how to get into the backyard from the cemetery at the rear. All of those people you met in the boardroom were at a party two months ago. I gave it to encourage our efforts before the sweeps. Talk about business losses.”
“What are the sweeps?”