Giles Blunt - Crime Machine

A small city that heralds itself as the Gateway to the North is unlikely also to be known as the gateway to fine dining, and until recently-unless your idea of an evening out involved donuts or poutine-this was pretty much the case with Algonquin Bay. Many an intrepid restaurateur had been brought to ruin by the economic realities of trying to serve fresh Atlantic salmon, not to mention an edible tomato, 340 kilometres north of Toronto. But they kept trying, and this particular year at least three restaurants-two steakhouses, as well as Bistro Champlain-were vying for the attention of local gourmands.

Of these, Bistro Champlain was by far the most successful. Partly this was the work of Jerry Wing, its creative chef, but being located across the highway from a first-class ski resort called the Highlands didn’t hurt. When the Highlands did well, Bistro Champlain did well-and right now it was doing very well indeed, owing to the winter fur auction. Buyers from all over the world had descended on Algonquin Bay to bid on hundreds of thousands of furs that would end up in showrooms from Manhattan to Moscow to Beijing. Champlain’s dining room may have maintained its luxurious hush, but for a couple of hours the kitchen had been a scene of barely controlled chaos.

It was nearly ten, and Sam Doucette had just plated what she hoped was the last order for the night: the maple venison, accompanied by sweet potato mash and a red wine reduction. The rush was over, and the decibel level of slamming skillets, pans and ramekins had finally settled below the pain threshold. Jerry had already gone home, and Sam was praying that Ken, the manager, would not seat some late arrival with a huge appetite. Working as a cook-a skill her mother had taught her-was supposed to be part-time, a way of subsidizing her art classes at Algonquin College, but for the past few nights she had been doing the work of two cooks, one of her colleagues having been summarily fired for attempting to exit the premises with two hams stuffed in his backpack. All but two of the waiters, Ali and Jeff, had gone home, and Sam couldn’t wait to get out of there.

She rested one foot on the bottom of an upturned pickle bucket and wiped the sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her chef’s tunic. Would Randall call? If he called, fine. If not… well, she didn’t want to think about that. Romance, she was discovering, was not uninterrupted bliss; mostly, it was uninterrupted anxiety. So she turned her mind to Loreena Moon, the heroine of a graphic novel she was drawing and writing just for fun. Well, she told herself it was just for fun-she didn’t want to get all worked up thinking about actually selling it-but she was also toying with the idea that it might be a series. She had already drawn lots of images and written several scenes. For some reason, the imaginary Loreena Moon was clearer in Sam’s mind than anything about her real life, except Randall and his passionate kisses.

Loreena Moon was cool, aloof, self-reliant-everything Sam was not. She moved through the shadows of the city, a perpetual frown of suspicion darkening her brow. She carried a knife in a fringed sheath on her hip, a quiver of arrows at her shoulder, and a small bow slung across her back. She was always outraged, always righting wrongs and saving helpless people, wronged people. Loreena never looked back and she was never, ever in love. She was the same age as Sam, eighteen, but she didn’t live on the reserve and she didn’t live in Algonquin Bay. Sam was not yet sure where Loreena Moon lived. It couldn’t be a house or an apartment; no bills or personal responsibilities for Loreena. The only place Sam could imagine her staying was in hotel rooms, and never the same one twice.

The kitchen clock hit ten, ending Champlain’s food service for the night. Sam’s cellphone rang in the breast pocket of her tunic and her heart gave a skip of happiness. The tiny screen said Randall Wishart.

“We have a place,” she said. “Please tell me we have a place. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too,” Randall said. “Come to the Island Road house. How long will you be?”

“I’m done here. I just have to set up for the lunch crew.”

“Park some ways away,” he said, “and don’t let anybody see you.”

Sam turned off the deep fryer, the ovens and ranges. She had already wiped down the counters and cutting boards. Ken McCoy, the manager, stuck his head in from the dining room and gave her the okay signal.

She changed in a supply closet behind the kitchen. The white tunic came off and went into the laundry bin, followed by the ridiculous check pants. Loreena was always in black jeans and tank top, sometimes a black T-shirt, maybe with a cat logo or a lightning bolt. Sam’s own jeans were a struggle, she was so sweaty from the stove. She pulled on the soft red sweater that she knew Randall liked, slung her coat over her arm and went out the back door to the parking lot.

The night was fine, the snap and sparkle of December without the face-freezing cold that January would soon bring. Loreena Moon would have hopped on her Kawasaki, but Sam had to be careful getting into her ’96 Civic. The door had to be lifted just so as you opened it or the hinge would go out of whack and the thing would refuse to close.

–

The Island Road property was out on Trout Lake, at the tip of a point it had all to itself. In summer there might have been people cruising by in boats, people driving back and forth to their cottages, but this time of year it was dead quiet. Even so, Randall opened the door the way he always did, standing behind it so he couldn’t be glimpsed by any chance passerby. He was still wearing one of the dark sports jackets he favoured for work, but he had taken his tie off and, seeing Sam, his face lit up like a hot young actor’s at the Academy Awards. The moment Sam was inside, he took her in his arms and hugged her tight.

“Three whole days,” Sam said. “I was going crazy.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Nope.”

“Where’d you park?”

“The hydro turnoff you showed me.”

“Cool.”

The house was a bungalow, very open and lots of polished wood everywhere. Too pretty for Loreena, but Sam liked it just fine. She hoped the owners never came back. She took off her boots and hung up her coat in the vestibule and Randall hugged her again. He switched off the vestibule light and they went to the bedroom and got undressed, Sam draping her stuff on a wooden chair by the closet.

“Jane have nice body,” Randall said. “Tarzan like.”

“I wish I could take a shower. I’m all sweaty.”

“Me like all sweaty.”

They lay down on the blue blanket Randall always brought to cover whatever bed they happened to use. He kept it in his car and Sam occasionally wondered how he explained its presence there to his wife. He stretched out naked, hands behind his head, showing off his biceps. Sam loved his body. Loved it in a way she was sure you should never love anything of this world. She had always thought love would be a melding of minds, a union of souls, and until she slept with Randall Wishart she had never considered the possibility that you could be positively loony over the sheer physicality of another human being.

Sam straddled Randall’s chest, pinioning his arms. Her hands looked dark against his so not-Native skin. “I think about you all the time,” she said.

“Me too.”

“No, I mean really, really all the time.”

“If I could draw like you, I’d draw you over and over again, all day long.”

Sam touched his cheek. It was always smooth. Randall never allowed the slightest stubble. He would have considered it unprofessional in a realtor.