From Sweetgrass Bridge – Chapter One

 

 

Friday night and Merry Bell was where she knew she shouldn’t be. At work. Well, calling it work was laughable, seeing as she had none. Tonight was Livingsky Sharpe Investigations’ (LSI for short) six month anniversary. Half a year ago she’d pulled the plug on what was supposed to be her dream life in glorious Vancouver, British Columbia, packed up her meagre belongings (which may or may not have included a collection of hair scrunchies and a pair of Christian Louboutin boots that cost more than what she currently paid in monthly rent), and skedaddled it back to Saskatchewan, specifically her hometown of Livingsky. She was desperately broke and a changed person, in more ways than one, and needed to start over. Someone should have told her starting over was bloody hard.

Merry Bell arrived in Livingsky with a new dream: to get back to Vancouver as soon as possible. She knew it wasn’t going to happen overnight. She was going to have to earn her way back, and she had a plan. The moment she stepped foot in Livingsky, where the cost of living was considerably less, she rented a small office at 222 Craving Lane and started her own PI firm. She figured it would take a year to eighteen months to earn enough cash to hightail it out of the prairies and back to the land of magical mountainscapes, moist ocean air, and the freedom to live life the way she wanted to.

But as someone—probably some monk sitting on top of one of those glorious British Columbia mountains—once said, life does not always go according to plan. Sitting at her worn-out desk in a cramped office with a view of a graffitied back alley, Merry wondered if the only good thing to come out of the past six months was currently sitting next to her desk: a minibar fridge. She’d found it cheap on Kijiji and it was worth every penny. She had her work neighbour, Brenda Brown of Designs by Brenda, to thank for the idea. Brenda kept hers stocked with Sauvignon blanc. Merry preferred chalky chardonnay and peaty scotch, but the best she could afford these days was swill in a box. But for tonight, in disputable honour of her anniversary, she’d splurged for a not-horrible bottle of Prosecco and a small charcuterie platter from a surprisingly good deli in Livingsky’s version of the wrong side of the tracks, Alphabet City, where Merry currently resided.

As she poured herself a second glass and heaped an artisanal cracker with a mound of cheese with an unpronounceable name atop a dollop of red pepper jelly, Merry fought off—not very successfully—the out-of-work-PI blues. In the early, heady days after she first moved to Vancouver, celebrating involved hanging out with friends in whatever the latest hotspot was, the more pretentious the better, dancing until the wee hours of the morning and downing too many Alabama Slammers. How far she’d fallen. Here she was on a Friday night in her office which was at best downtown-adjacent, drinking barely passable bubbles, broke, alone, about to turn thirty, and marking a passage of time that seemed more millstone than milestone. True, she was much younger back then, immature, with no career prospects and still trying to figure out exactly who she was. Calling the people she hung out with friends was probably a stretch. But who cared? At least she had people, people to go out with, laugh with, be silly with, talk to, cry with. In Livingsky she had no one.

Six months into her eighteen-month plan and her goal of leaving Livingsky seemed no closer than it did the day she arrived. Despite what she thought was a kick ass website (which, admittedly, piggybacked on the website and reputation of her former boss, Nathan Sharpe), paying clients had been few and far between. Her first job was an arson case that ended up being considerably more complicated and political than she’d counted on. She’d prevailed and proved her client (an oddball property owner named Gerald Drover who also became her landlord) innocent, but since then she’d had very little luck finding more work. Was it because she’d ruffled a few too many feathers at City Hall in the course of the Drover case? Maybe it was her affiliation, more perceived than actual, with Drover himself? Or was Livingsky simply too small of a city for an investigator to make a living? She was barely scraping by, working jobs that were more private security than private eye.

By glass number three Merry’s mood turned from blue to cloudy grey. Sliding open the bottom drawer of her desk, she dug beneath a stack of empty file folders that should have been filled with client records and pulled out two, well-worn sheets of paper. They were identical except for the message scrawled on each one. The first read: “I know it’s you”, the second, “I still know it’s you”. Note one was mysteriously slipped under her door at 222 Craving Lane not long after she first arrived in Livingsky, note two several days later. Then nothing. Six months had passed and not a single word or attempt at follow up communication from whoever sent them.

At first, Merry suspected her too-friendly, too-bossy, too-nosy, too-intrusive, too-everything neighbour, the ever-prissy Brenda of Designs by Brenda, a business that Merry suspected was more a front to give Brenda reason to get out of the house than an actual service to paying clients which she, not unlike Merry, seemed to have a hard time attracting. But when Merry eventually confronted her, Brenda denied it, a denial Merry felt compelled to accept.

The only remaining possibility that made any sense was that the note-writer was someone from her past. Whoever it was, Merry preferred to leave them there. Once a month she pulled the notes from the drawer fully intent on shredding them to pieces, relegating them to nothing more than a bad memory. Yet every time, after staring at them for ninety seconds, she’d change her mind and bury them deeper in the same drawer until next month. Tonight was no different. She stared at the words she knew by heart with the faint hope she’d see something new, some hidden message, something that would tell her who wrote them and why. She’d tell herself how lucky it was that the messages stopped when they did so she didn’t have to deal with it, the who and why not really mattering anymore. But in the depths of her being she wished the opposite was true. She wished the sender would persist, send more messages, push harder and, eventually, show themselves and proclaim their position as someone who…what?…someone who knew her? Someone who gave a shit? Not knowing the answer, Merry would stash the notes away, again, out of sight but not out of mind.

Just as she was shoving the papers back into the drawer, an unfamiliar a high-pitched ping drew her eyes to the computer screen where a small box had appeared at the bottom right-hand corner.

Email! I have an email!

Of course Merry had received emails before, but her excitement was warranted because this one was different, this one was momentous, this one originated from the LSI website and did not appear to be an offer for a low interest business loan or overture from a lady who was both busty and lusty. With a subject line that read: Investigation Inquiry, the message appeared to be from an actual real person, one who was potentially interested in hiring a detective, one who’d presumably reviewed the website, one who understood LSI’s standard fee was $100 per hour plus out of pocket incidentals and hadn’t been scared off.

Almost too nervous to click on the email in fear of her high hopes being dashed, Merry spread a dab of pate on a crust of bread, topped it with a dry sliver of Pecorino, and took her time savouring the lovely taste combination that exploded in her mouth. She topped up her Prosecco, took a sip, then another, and only then did she hit the icon that would reveal the email’s content.

 

Hello,

I am interested in hiring an investigator. This is a private matter. Can we meet in person to discuss? The sooner the better.

Ruth-Anne Delorme

 

Merry jumped up and did the air pump thing that is usually reserved for bros watching football at a sports bar, and shouted “yes!” to her reflection in the office window. It was certainly not what her former boss and mentor Nathan Sharpe would have done but screw it. She next dove into an off-tune, made-up chorus of “I’m gonna get a client, I’m gonna get a client.”

Once her exuberance was exhausted, she returned to her seat, closed her eyes to collect her thoughts, then typed out a response, suggesting a meeting the next day, Saturday. She was about hit send, then stopped. Did she sound too desperate? Did she sound inebriated? How many glasses of Prosecco had she drunk? Should she wait a couple of hours to respond, or better yet wait until Monday morning, so it wouldn’t look like she was some sad sack sitting in her office on a Friday night with nothing better to do? Screw that too! She was desperate. She was a sad sack. She hit send.

 

 

“Is there a party going on in here I wasn’t invited to?”

Merry, startled, responded with: “Nope. No party in here.”

Brenda made no effort to hide a pointed surveillance of Merry’s desktop littered with charcuterie remains and a nearly empty bottle of Prosecco. Brenda Brown was no stranger to hiding hurt feelings with a bright smile, and although her words sounded like jest, she meant them in all seriousness. She’d tried for months to entice Merry Bell into some kind of sisterhood/officemates/Gossip-Girl type of relationship, all to no avail. How many times had she opened her wine fridge and offered Merry Bell a glass of Sauvignon blanc, just to be rebuked with some flimsy excuse? The P.I. obviously had someone over for a Friday afterwork drinkie-poo and chinwag. Why wasn’t it her? “I must commend you and whoever you had over, you certainly kept things quiet. I didn’t hear a peep, even though I’m right on the other side of this wall. Alvin always says these old houses are made of good bones. I guess he’s right.”

Alvin Smallinsky was the owner of 222 Craving Lane, having purchased the wartime house and successfully converted it into multiple rentable business spaces over three floors.

“No party. Just me.”

“Oh. Well, that’s too bad. Friday night drinkies are one of my favourite things.” Brenda smiled sweetly. Is she lying to me? Brenda preferred to believe she wasn’t. It meant she hadn’t been excluded. Besides, it wasn’t entirely surprising that Merry had been drinking alone. Despite the small amount of time she’d managed to spend with the woman, she knew a lonely soul when she saw one. In the six months since Merry Bell moved to Livingsky and hung her shingle out at 222 Craving Lane where Brenda made it her business to get to know all her fellow tenants—because that’s what good neighbours did—there’d been no evidence that she’d made even one friend. This fact made Brenda feel a little better about her own lack of success in befriending the private investigator, emphasis on the private.

At first, she’d thought things were heading in the right direction. She’d invited Merry to her home for a makeover (which Brenda could see was clearly in need of a refresher), which led to a burgeoning apprenticeship-thingy-relationship between Merry and Brenda’s husband Roger who himself was an amateur sleuth, and then Merry shared her status as a transgender woman. After all of that who wouldn’t think a girl’s day at the spa and a Winners shopping spree weren’t in the future? But no. Merry Bell had resolutely kept her distance, which did not fit Brenda’s plan.

“I love Prosecco,” Brenda cooed, taking a baby step into the office.

“I’d offer you some but it looks like I drank more than I thought I did. “Merry sighed. “I guess you might say I was having a party, sort of. Today is six-months since I opened LSI.”

Brenda danced fully into the room and flounced herself down in the chair across from Merry’s. “Oh my goodness! Congratulations! How silly of me to forget. You should have said something, you silly goose. I would have gotten you something, a card, bouquet of Gerberas maybe. I love Gerberas! The colour choices are so wonderful, don’t you think?” She pulled out her phone. “I’m entering the date on my calendar right now so I won’t forget again. For your one-year anniversary I’ll make sure to have an extra special bottle of Sauv Blanc chilled and ready!” Didn’t hurt to keep trying.

“You don’t have to do that.” Merry said in a way that made Brenda wonder if she’d even be here in six more months.

“It’s my pleasure. It really, really is. I’m just sorry I forgot about today. You have to let me make it up to you.”

“That’s not necessary. It’s really not a big deal.”

“I just decided. Roger and I are having a pool party tomorrow night. You have to come. Seven work for you?”

“You have a pool? Like in your yard?”

“Mmmhmm. I guess the last time you were at the house it was winter so you wouldn’t have seen the back yard. So, seven then?”

Merry shook her head. “I don’t think so but thank you.”

Brenda sat up straighter in her chair. “Merry, you know I’m always going to be straight with you.” She reached across the desk, picked up the Prosecco bottle, raised it to her mouth and downed the last few drops. She smirked at Merry’s response to the unexpected action, something beyond surprise and closer to appreciative amusement. Small steps. “Merry Bell, you need to get out more. You need to spend time with people instead of always holing up at work, always alone. It’s not good for you. It’s not good for anybody. Six months of LSI? More like six months of being a hermit.”

Merry sputtered. “How do you know what I do when I’m not here. Maybe I have tons of friends and go out all the time.”

“Is that true?” Brenda asked, sincerely.

“No,” Merry whispered.

“It’ll just be a few friends and neighbours, nothing fancy. The weather looks like it’s going to be perfect, you’ll have a swim, eat finger foods, have a cocktail or two, it’ll be fun. Seven, then?”

“I…no.”

Why is she resisting me? “Oh my gosh!” The colour behind Brenda’s artfully applied makeup drained away as realization struck. “I’m so sorry. I get it now. I didn’t even think about that!”

Merry gaped, clueless. “Think about what?”

“Why you wouldn’t want to attend a pool party. I’ll think of something else. What about a barbecue? Or we could go bowling!”

“What are you talking about? Why wouldn’t I want to go a pool party?”

“Because you’re transgender.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Brenda winced. She was really screwing this up. Merry was probably regretting telling her and Roger her secret. “Merry, I want you to know that I don’t say what I’m about to say to be rude or insensitive. I only want to learn and educate myself so I can be a better friend to you. I…well, gosh now, how do I put this? Do transgender people go to pool parties? Do you wear swimsuits?”

Merry’s eyes widened. Then she laughed, big, bellowing guffaws.

Brenda stared, not quite certain what was happening. Was that a “you’re so silly, Brenda” kind of laugh, or a “you’re an idiot, get out of my office” kind of laugh.

“Transgender people can go anywhere you can go,” Merry eventually answered. “We do go to pool parties. We do wear swimsuits. Transgender women have all the same choices. Like any woman, we can wear suits that show off the parts of our body we want to show off or hide the parts we want to hide. Some transgender women may have a vagina just like yours and wear a swimsuit as revealing as one you would wear, or not, depending on her personal preference. Some transgender women may not have a vagina and still wear a revealing swimsuit if she wants by tucking.”

“I know about that!” Brenda crowed. “I know tucking! I’ve seen every episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race, both the U.S. and Canadian versions. They talk about tucking all of the time.”

“What about Roger?”

For a moment Brenda was speechless. So few people in their world knew about her husband’s affinity for dressing in womenswear it was shocking to hear someone refer to it in such a casual manner. Fast on the heels of this first shock, another overwhelmed her: she didn’t know the answer to Merry’s question. They’d been married for seven years, dated for two before that. He’d told her about his crossdressing as soon as the relationship became serious, so she’d known for nearly ten years. Still, she had no idea whether he tucked when he dressed up. How could that be? Was it that she didn’t think to ask, didn’t care to know, or didn’t want to know? Did she not really look at him when he was dressed as a woman? Whether he tucked or not was something that was likely pretty obvious if you looked in the right places. Was there something about her husband tucking his genitalia away in order to be this other version of himself that made her uneasy?

Never one to be comfortable in silence, Brenda opened her mouth to say something but, try as she might, nothing came out.

She was saved by an insistent ping coming from Merry’s computer.

Merry read the new email then looked up, flushed. “I’m sorry, Brenda, that was a message from a client. Looks like I’ll be working tomorrow and won’t be able to make the pool party. Maybe another time.”

Brenda knew a convenient excuse when she heard one. Merry Bell was a tough nut to crack as her mother used to say. She rose to leave. When she reached the door she stopped, turned, and said, “Well, if your plans change, you’re welcome to join us. Anytime after seven.”

Merry nodded but was noticeably distracted by something on her screen.

“Is everything okay?” Brenda asked, noting how the colour in other woman’s face had fallen away with remarkable speed.

Merry didn’t seem to hear her.

Brenda raised an eyebrow and left.