Note: the role of Gord will be played by Sheila on this walk; Gord isn’t looking well.
Alert: note the date – summer has officially 3 weeks to go but we know better.
Walking with Sheila will cry out for comparisons with Gord’s ambulations which could have me walking the plank. I’ll try to watch my step.
My plan is to introduce Sheila to the wonders of the Williard Walk which she’s heard so much about and only men know so much about. This starts with a walk north on Ripley Avenue, Gord and I usually head directly to the South Kingsway.
Ripley Avenue is going through a minor transformation with all parking spots getting a clean bill of health thanks to repaving and bright yellow park-between-the-lines. This route must have more cars per parking spot than any other street in Toronto. And, of course, the Cheese Boutique attracts a clientele that hasn’t walked to a store since Henry Ford appeared on the scene.
Back to the South Kingsway now a street that houses the small and the mighty but doesn’t discriminate when it comes to parking. Melding into the morning traffic and leaving the evening rush hour to your once-was-a-lawn driveway can’t be the highlight of anyone’s day.
Speaking of the small, this picture shows an-about-to-be-torn-down up against a neighbourly transformation. (The building to the right will soon lose not only the light-facing windows when the replacement McMansion surfaces and, I’m guessing, but also around $250,000 off any future listing.)
I can clearly envision the conversation between the supposedly little old lady owner of the teardown and the shaking with high commission fever real estate agent.
“Well, it’s time to move; Arthur, that’s my late husband, and I bought this place just after the war.”
“I understand, hard to pull yourself away. Any questions?”
“Well, we want to get our money back, we scrimped and saved to find the down payment and then pay off the mortgage.”
“… do you recall … hmm … what you paid … roughly?”
“No roughly about it, $6,500!”
“A mighty sum at that time, I’m sure. Let’s see, accounting for inflation (agent counts through all her fingers and toes and back again) I can assure you that you’ll get your money,( sotto voce) less an egregious commission, back.”
“What about staging, I hear that a lot.”
“No need, just take what you want and leave the rest.”
“That’s going to be a lot of work, clearing out things. Who will move them?”
“The bulldozer.”
The walk up to Bloor is a gentle incline but you’re glad when you see the Esso station on the corner. And then Sheila points out the pet stores; there are three establishments in the area catering to the pet-o-philes (say that clearly). It’s obviously a dog-eats-a-lot-of-dog-food world.
This makes it official
Sheila also shows me the restaurant Ma Maison on the north side of Bloor. They had (maybe still do) a restaurant opposite Bruno’s plaza (not sure of the mall’s correct name) on Dundas street just east of Royal York. At the time, it was one of the few establishments that had a legitimate French touch so it will be a welcome addition to the area.
Bienvenue!
By now you’re starting to appreciate the difference between an all-talk-and-no-looking walk with Gord and a pause-and-see-everything stretch with Sheila.
As an aside, everyone’s seen that cartoon that highlights the difference between men and women shopping for a sweater? The half dozen red dots on the floorplan indicate the man’s path to and from the parking lot to the store where he buys a sweater versus the several thousand dots that trace the woman’s journey to every store in the mall and the return to the car without the sweater but with lots of other things. Well, this is the walk equivalent. Sheila goes, or at least notes, where no man has gone before.
We start our descent down the Williard Walk and something new catches our eye, (Gord and I have a lot of important things to talk about that takes all our attention: ‘How are you feeling? How’s the dog? Pretty warm for this time of day, eh?” so it’s to be expected that we would miss the plaque honouring Raymond Holmes Souster, a recognized poet from the area and a supporter of the arts.
Towards the end of the walk, Sheila announces, “This is great, but,” checking details that escaped Gord’s and my eyes like the car painted on the garage door, “I’ve been here before.”
A very realistic MG and I’m guessing a TD, maybe a 53?
I can’t hide my disappointment, I was the one showing her the walk. “But how?” I unbelievably mutter.
“Well, I remember walking on the South Kingsway and saw people seemingly disappear so I followed them.”
And with that Sheila not only points out the hidden Ormskirk Park that Gord didn’t know about but also the steps leading up to Windermere and parts to be known. “I’ll take you there sometime.”
No Gord (not feeling well) and no Sheila (shopping) this time, just me but I feel it’s worth a telling.
I had to go to the Runnymede library today (It’s back open now that COVID-19 has settled down.) to drop off a book and pick up one I’d reserved lo these many months. I’m impressed, the library kept track of it and let me know when I could venture into their sanctum to retrieve it. As an aside, the library is almost empty. A COVID-19 forced change from my recent memory when it was awash with, among others, the great unwashed who looked to it to satisfy their free newspaper reading needs and welcome warmth or comforting cooling depending on the season.
I was struggling with the choice of walking to the library or taking my bike. The bike, an e-bike, is the obvious choice but you can’t carry anything on it. It’s a male gender version which forbids baskets woven, wicker or otherwise. It would be a balancing act at best that seniors don’t take to well or too well. So Sheila solved my dilemma, “I’ll drop you off on my way to wherever.”
I confess to changing my male determining decision making. The thought of being driven up the hill and then walking down to home was pure pleasure. I highly recommend it. You cover off your guilt of ‘not getting out and doing some physical activity’ and make it home in one piece with breathing to spare.
The library is at the top, the north west corner, of High Park. High Park, for those not in the know, is close to being Toronto’s version of New York’s Central Park. If it were, it would be separating the Toronto towers with greenery but it’s further west than downtown. Its purpose, though, is the same as Central Park’s – to provide humanity with an oasis of nature almost completely shielded from the look and noise of civilization.
While cars can use it, only going one way to the south, the 20 kilometer speed limit keeps them to a safe crawl which leaves the roads and pathways open to cyclists, walkers, walkers with dogs and wanderers like me on this marvelous morning. And what a morning for mid September – a forecast high of 23, sunny and dry.
Grenadier Pond, looking south, Lake Ontario lurks beyond.
When you have time on your side you get to see what you’d miss from a moving car or speeding bike. For example, you get to read all those signs that tell you what you didn’t study in school. My first lecture tells me that not so long ago, Grenadier Pond, the body of water that keeps High Park attracting water fowl and ice skaters was once an open body of water connected to Lake Ontario. Now it’s land locked but has a man made connection with the Humber River to the west to handle any runoff.
The signs continue to educate you along the way on the fish and fowl that abound. I didn’t know that there were two types of Canada Geese (Branta canadensis – aren’t you glad your parents forced you to take Latin?) and the type Canada loves is the one that migrates so that we can share the treasures the bird leaves when it leaves for places as far away as Europe.
Speaking of fishes (yes, this plural refers to species; fish would mean the same darn fish, singular and plural.) and one of the species is the northern pike, a sporting angler’s favourite.
I take a moment to test a bench that hopefully hadn’t lost a ‘fresh paint’ sign and page through the book I picked up at the library. This is indeed a pleasurable moment; only the bench’s hard design forces me to move prematurely.
The rest of the walk home takes me around the southern perimeter of Grenadier Pond and west along the Queensway to South Kingsway and off at the first right to Ripley Avenue.
When you walk these routes that border runways for racing cars you not only feel the traffic rushing by you but also the comfort of probably not getting run over, an obvious bonus over biking which makes you wonder if cycling, even with its own lanes, even with all this effort made nowadays to win over the cyclist, is the way to go.
So I’ve added three kilometers to our walks. When Gord gets to read this I’m sure he’ll say with mock indignation, “Well, you really haven’t walked High Park,” which is what I hope he’ll say. Then we can get together again and he’ll show me the way.
When a ‘Doctor’ tells you to get some blood work done, (‘We need to do it to check for atherosclerosis,’ oh, of course, why didn’t you say so?) you should immediately start formulating a plan to not get blood work done. (More on the whys later). Admit it, you suspect your ‘Doctor’ hasn’t a clue what’s wrong with you, if anything. It’s your annual checkup and he’s fishing; probably suspects you’re a hypochondriac. At least you don’t display any obvious near death symptoms. You got to his office on your own steam. You read and signed his liability agreement absolving him of all blame should you contract some virulent virus during your examination. So you push back. And herewith all you need to know to build up an effective defense. You may wish to take notes.
Look away
First thing, confirm that he/she’s a physician and not a Doctor of Religious Studies or a doctoral student in metallurgy.
Take note, too, of the only expensively framed piece of yellowing paper on his/her wall; make sure the largest letters, the ones in bold and in Old English Text don’t start with the English words: ‘School of …’ You’re looking for: ‘University of …’ or ‘Yale’ or ‘Harvard’. ‘School of Yale’ fixes locks.
Be suspicious also if the city in question is misspelled, diploma mills always get ‘Albuquerque’ wrong.
Always look for a diploma that’s in Latin; this doesn’t ensure your physician of choice is any good but a good litigation lawyer can sue for more.
And start to wonder when waiting room reading material is current.
If the above doesn’t get you out of this blood sport, try to talk your physician out of getting the work done. Suggested questions:
I feel fine, I always look like this. Why are you putting on a hazmat suit?
Which classes did you skip that require you to get a second opinion?
Can you trust the lab doing the analysis? Ask for the name of the lab. The lab’s name shouldn’t be in Latin. When you get home, Google, ‘Joe’s lab and gravel pit.’
Humour him, (‘I need to do this to test for hyperhidrosis,’ two can play this game.) ‘What do you call the individual who came last in their graduation class in medical school?’ Answer:Doctor.
Needles and me? Faintsville.
Once he dances around these questions and points out that specialists like himself charge by the minute, grudgingly accept the requisition form and get ready for the next stage.
You’ve had blood work done before, what’s the big deal? Half an hour out of your retired life; some small pain going in and a bit more when you remember to rip off the bandage later and lots of nervous small talk, ‘Nice day, eh? I didn’t realize that there’s a school for puncturologists.’, and then along came COVID-19.
And this is the real reason you want to avoid blood work today. As promised, here’s the (more later).
The cozy waiting room that seated a dozen or so in the past and provided a semblance of comfort for your half hour wait is now a maze for a few people standing that measure 6 feet when they fall down. So you wait outside the lab, even on the street, until the shuffling gets you here.
Since you didn’t book a time, you get to wait an indeterminate time outside the lab or on the street because the slight young female in charge, the one with the clipboard, has trouble accurately determining the wait time.
You arrive at 9:30 a.m., the lab opened at 7:00 a.m. “You’ll be about an hour,” she soothes. You count bodies lingering about and your eyebrow arches, “An hour my eye.”
But I sense a wondering pause from you dear reader, yes, I did go on line to make an appointment and the earliest available day, not necessarily convenient time, was a week away.
‘I want you to get this blood work done immediately, we don’t have a lot of time.’
‘What, you’re going on holidays? It can’t be anything serious, I drove here and backed in.’
So you wait impatiently and take the time to look around. We’re in a medical building so the required pharmacy occupies most of the street floor. A poster for compression socks greets your wandering eye. Why not? Everybody waiting around is north of 70. Can’t see trampoline manufacturers fighting for shelf space.
But the poster appeals to your looks, or lack of them, because it tells you that these compression socks are sexy and to prove it the model who is sporting them all the way up to her exposed thigh must be all of sixteen years old (Why do they choose models that have no relation to reality? Why would she need anything? – ed) and drop dead gorgeous. And she’s smiling. (Note to self: order a dozen.) How can someone smile when half their body is in compression? I look around the waiting area; the lot of us has seen better times. Are they at the tipping point in their beauty cycle where compression socks are going to get them back with George Clooney?
“Notice anything different, cutie pie?”
Male person of the relationship in a lose-lose situation, “Hmm, well, you look … er … comfortable.”
“I’m wearing compression socks.”
“Ah that’s it, you handle pain well.” (Dictionary flies across the room.)
Then another poster, sans model this time, reminds you that ‘Diabetic socks here.’ I didn’t know. My limited knowledge of the condition always had sugar in the conversation. Hard for me to equate the two, “Those are one set of sweet socks you’re wearing.” Tough sell, I figure, limited George Clooney appeal.
This pharmacy knows its audience: no Viagra ads, no special on 50 kilogram weights to get your abs in shape; no stats on the wall showing you how fast you should run 10 kilometers. Even the pharmacist is no threat, leaning on his walker dispensing wisdom.
Back to reality. Well, the fun had to begin and begin it did with an individual who had had enough of waiting since he had waited long enough; over three hours. He followed the script and started yelling at the slight young thing. Unfortunately she hadn’t had advanced training in how to calm down an incensed individual (I always wanted to say, were I in a similar situation, “I have a gun.” But I digress.)
So I stepped in, I thought I could take him in 2 out of 3 falls if things got out of hand. Fortunately he didn’t turn from the slight young thing and kick me in the shins but hostilities did calm down. There was no applause.
I, too, cooled my jets for 3 hours and was finally ushered into the inner sanctum, the former waiting room described above. Alas, nothing changed from the outside, you wait here, too. It looks promising, however, you can see the end of the line.
You can also see that the staff are not the reason for any holdup. They’re bustling but there’s paper work. Most patients are handy handling a smart phone so a lot of the data is already digitized. But then it hits you, the form you’re gripping was digitally produced, e-mailed to me which I then printed because that’s what it said to do but why isn’t that data already in the lab’s computer? Why don’t the technicians have an ipad with all that information? Like the guys at my car dealership?
That doesn’t look good
“Your oil change is done, Mr. Legon, but we see from your chart that you could use some blood work. Won’t take a minute, hop up on the hoist.”
You daren’t ask for fear of being sent to the end of the line. Ah, memories of misbehaving in public school.
“You have a question? You want to know why the Encyclopedia Britannica doesn’t agree with me? Why don’t you think about it in the cloak room? Way you go. And come back when you’ve settled yourself.”
I know, the technically advanced among you have the answer; the computers don’t talk to one another. The doctor is government; the lab is private enterprise. But still.
Now comes the blood letting. There’s nothing to it, as you’ve doubtless experienced. Your blood cells are as impatient as you are, they want to get out of there. Three tubes later, properly bar coded, and part of your life starts its new journey.
And that’s why you should try to avoid doing blood work. You’ve painfully endured roughly 4 hours of your day standing, sitting, listening to sane people argue – all to do what should be a simple procedure that you didn’t ask for in the first place and, let’s face it, you really don’t want to know the results.
Admit it, when you buy a jigsaw1The name ‘jigsaw’ came to be associated with the puzzle around 1880 when fretsaws became the tool of choice for cutting the shapes. Since fretsaws are distinct from jigsaws, the name appears to be a misnomer. The ‘fret’, however, does have a certain amount of verisimilitude. puzzle you wonder,
“Is this the one puzzle of the gazillion jig saw puzzles produced that’s missing a piece?”
The wondering doesn’t stop there and you surmise how it could happen. The disgruntled employee, fired for studying for his PhD on company time, on his last day on the job, opens the box, takes out a piece, reseals the contents and makes sure shipping sends it your way. And not an edge piece, no, you’d discover that right away; the piece or pieces missing are the key to getting Mona Lisa to smile.
The wondering continues as you spread the pieces on that piece of felt you paid $49.95 for (more on that later) and as you struggle you conclude, “There’s gotta be a piece missing!”
Of course, there’s no piece missing. It’s you that’s missing the patience and confidence to solve this bloody thing.
I was never a fan but peer pressure at the cottage forced me to show some interest in jig saw puzzles.
I mean, this is a trivial task. To start, you have to turn over all the pieces, I could handle that in public school. Then you have to set out all the edge pieces. That I mastered doing in high school. Then you have to look for something in the accompanying picture that you could quickly build; how ‘bout working on the letters in ‘Moulin Rouge’? That problem solving focus I acquired in third year engineering.
Why do we do it, then? Why do we put our back out from repeatedly standing and bending; why do we punish our eyes from staring at a teeny, tiny piece of cardboard; why do we spend hours at a time at this and then realize this unfinished masterwork has to be moved somehow to free up the table for dinner?
I know, when you get a piece to fit without hammering it in with your fist, you get a dopamine hit. Talk about simple pleasures.
Now that the picture is taking some shape, you tackle the monochromatic wall that commands half the picture. Had you paid the slightest attention to the puzzle when you bought it, you would have noticed that vast stretch of ochre without a hint of relief and quickly gone for the puzzle of the Magna Carta in Latin.
But you can do the wall. Now that you’ve lowered yourself to this level of cerebral challenge, you decide you’re going to show the world that you’re one smart dude and can analyze the problem scientifically, professionally, maturely to guarantee a rewarding solution.
No, you say to yourself, I will not test every single piece of amber-bay-beige by trying to jam it into the welcoming piece then picking at it to get it out then turning it 90 degrees and trying again to jam it into the welcoming piece then picking out the now frayed piece turning 90 degrees …
No, you will expertly study the scene looking for minor variations in the bland backdrop. You decide to look to a magnifying glass to help unravel the mystery. Then you bring your favourite reading lamp to the game; the one with the high octane bulb you favour when you want to read the fine print on your lottery win. All this to give this exercise the intensity a person of your learned and competitive nature demands. You will bring this beast to ground.
When you can’t take that two Tylenol pain that’s hammering the back of your head any longer, you move on. You work on the mole on the subject’s visage instead; you’ve seen that piece somewhere.
Now for that two square foot piece of felt you paid more for than a square mile of the finest cashmere. The entrepreneur that bemoaned the fact that you had to move the unfinished puzzle to eat at the dining room table figured out that he or she could make a buck by supplying a piece of felt that you just roll up for another day.
To get the most for the felt, however, he/she had to include:
Instructions (my favourite)
A piece of plastic that you inflate to create a roll that you will then use to wrap the piece of felt around. That piece of felt is currently holding the 7 pieces you managed to connect in your first hour plus the remaining 1,000 – 7 scattered pieces of the puzzle.
Two elastics to hold the piece of felt you wrapped around the inflated sausage of plastic so your life’s work doesn’t unroll.
And finally, a piece of rejected material that becomes a sack to hold the piece of felt rolled around the tubular balloon you’ve lost a lung over trying to inflate and securely fastened with two elastic bands.
Cost of materials:
$2.07
Skills required:
However long it took one to learn to write instructions that require grade one level reading skills.
Now, solving a jig saw puzzle isn’t a singular event; everyone gets to have a hand in. Family members and visiting friends who questioned your maturity when you bought it, surprisingly take a passing interest when they can pick up a piece, seemingly at random, and plop it accurately into the place where it should go that you haven’t been able to sort out for the better part of a morning. But they can’t just walk away as they walk away,
“How long have you been working on this?” comes the disdain.
You want to remove the piece they just put in and triumphantly replace it yourself. You think ahead, “Better hide a couple of pieces in case they come along when I’m not here and finish the darn thing.”
And so it goes, but you pay for your pastime. There’s probably a post doctoral thesis that confirms the more expensive the puzzle the more time it takes to solve it. And the more, from doubtless a future study, satisfaction you get from piecing it all together.
“You know that puzzle of the Magna Carta in Latin?” you rhetorically ask of no one in particular.
“No.”
“I solved it.”
For me there’s always a final let down; you finished it, now what? You stare at the finished impression of this artist’s masterpiece and decide, even though it’s the only Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec you’ve got, not to get it framed.
You’re now at the crossroads: you’re never going to do it again; hard to make it a gift and tearing it apart would only reawaken your three year old tantrum days. So you gently dismantle it, preserving some recognizable chunks for future admiration, and put everything high up on the shelf that harbours your revered 33 and 1/3 Gene Autry LPs and move on to the more important things in life now that you’ve cleared the table, so to speak.
The name ‘jigsaw’ came to be associated with the puzzle around 1880 when fretsaws became the tool of choice for cutting the shapes. Since fretsaws are distinct from jigsaws, the name appears to be a misnomer. The ‘fret’, however, does have a certain amount of verisimilitude.
I had occasion to work with a chap who bragged that he, “never did dishes.” What a missed opportunity.
Men are constantly challenged to know what to do to get on their significant other’s good side without having to be told, “Move your buns Lothario, fall’s been here for a month and the electric rake you got yourself for our anniversary is fully charged.”
I can now reveal how I pile up mega points: start washing the dishes.
I’m not talking about after dinner but (slowly) dur-ing-the-prep-ar-ation-of-dinner.
Sure you can set the table to get a nod of appreciation but you can almost train a pet to do that.
We all miss a Spot now and again
While dishes pile up during meal preparation, you start washing them. The effect on your partner is unbelievable starting with a questioning, ‘Now what’s he doing?’ quickly followed by an almost imperceptible ’Wow!’ and then finishing with a mile wide smile and an added splash of brandy to romance the sauce.
And it lasts because once dinner is ready, the kitchen is clean. None of this after dinner, “That was lovely, I guess we’d better clean up,” depressed state.
Before I get too excited and have to sit down from the wonder of it all and fall into a dizzying why-didn’t-I-think-of-this-before? state, I must confess that this isn’t the only answer.
There will be times when there are no dishes to clean and your significant other feels you’re not carrying your weight and dirtying a dish just to clean it to get the point meter off zero will more likely get her to wondering why she agreed to elope with you in the first place even though she provided the ladder.
No, you’ll have to continue to do the little things you do now to keep the peace: take out the garbage; bring in the garbage pails; clean up the garbage that the racoons didn’t find tasty; answer the front door and tell the canvasser, ‘No, but thank you for pointing out our chimney is a day away from resting in our driveway’; answer the front door and tell the Black and Blue Party that you already voted for them in the advance poll; answer the front door and feign fright from the mature individual in no discernible costume who is doing what exactly going out on a Halloween night?
But for that gotta-hit-it-outta-the-park occasion, you’ve got the answer. You’re welcome. As for my “never did dishes” friend? I hear he’s on his third marriage.
“This will be perfect, what a laugh, nobody will suspect a thing.”
“Go over it again. Your Daddy’s suite is just below the floor where the party’s taking place?”
“Right.”
“So we break away from the party and use your Dad’s suite? Fun. But I’m surprised your stick-in-the-mud Dad would give you a key.”
“He didn’t …”
“… so how will we get in?
“I’ll let you in from inside the suite.”
“And you’ll get into their suite …”
“…from their balcony.”
Chapter one
Welcome back, Tillinghast, all rested up after solving those exhausting Moriarty mysteries?”
That was J. J., Jim Jenkins, head detective at 5th division, who never misses an opportunity to get my goat and make sure everyone within earshot enjoys my discomfort. As usual, he ended his zinger with a resounding snort.
Before I could come up with a satisfactory rejoinder, the chief barrelled into the squad room heading directly for me.
“Tillinghast,” he blasted.
“Chief?” And then he said the two words I didn’t want to hear.
“Lance Steel.”
I decided to play dumb but I could hear a rumble starting from J.J.’s corner of the room.
Ah, Lance Steel, a guy with looks that could get away with murder.
“I don’t want that guy to get away with murder,” amazingly came the chief’s psychic demand.
“What’s every daughter’s mother’s worst nightmare up to now, chief?”
“You must have been living under a rock these last few days, Tillinghast, it’s in all the papers. (Chief waves newspaper in Rupert’s face.) Lance Steel prime suspect in Madison Arthur’s fall to death.”
I knew all about it, I just wanted the Chief to have to have his moment in front of the new guys in the room.
“And you’re telling me all this because …”
Slamming a file on my desk, “Sort it out!”
The rumblings from J.J.’s corner erupted … “Couldn’t happen to a nicer detective” … capped off with a guffaw that encouraged everyone in the room to chip in with a foot stomp.
Lance Steel. Yes, that’s his given name and along with a Hollywood moniker Lance possessed good looks, a pedigree and beautiful women hanging on to his every word.
Not that he had much to say in my envious view. Lance favoured the quiet good life and took away more than he gave back to society.
Lance was the offspring of Major William Steel, a name in military power circles, and Jennie Woodstock, a lady of wealth and social position. Lance didn’t have a worry in the world. His education, all private school and a recognized university, didn’t prepare him for anything. And why bother? Whatever skills he had, or learned, were never going to be required in his daily life.
And what a life; travel and partying. Lance was bright and what gave him the most pleasure was beating the system. Unfortunately Lance made questionable choices for his fun, often taking romantic risks with other people’s lives and getting away with them.
I’m Rupert Tillinghast, long suffering detective out of 5th division and my assignment was to see if Lance was having innocent fun with Madison Arthur or guilty of murder.
Madison Arthur, in any other life a true femme fatale. Unfairly attractive and bright, Madison was a highly visible politician who didn’t always agree with party policy nor Daddy’s conservative ways which meant she shouldn’t get distracted by square-jawed, cleft-chin Lance. Lance didn’t fool her but he was fun and she had fun with him but always on the QT.
On his way out of the squad room, Rupert couldn’t pass by J. J.’s desk without trying to touch a nerve.
“What are you working on, J. J. beside the crossword puzzle.”
“The Philby case, you know it?”
“Right, that’s the personal trainer who choked his client to death. Talk about not taking advice.”
“Supposedly. Not obvious, I confess we’re struggling with this.”
“Well, if anyone can get a hand on this,” Rupert tried unsuccessfully to hide his grin, “It’d be you, J. J.”
Rupert dodged the flying eraser as he left the room.
Chapter two
The cocktail party took place on the roof top of the Plaza, a luxury downtown condo. Melody Morrison, a celebrated defense attorney, hosted the event. Rumour had it that she was laying the political groundwork for her campaign to be considered for attorney general.
This was a smart-setters-must-be-seen-at event and the press was out in force guaranteeing it would be next day’s news. Lance and Madison, secretly having their fun, were in attendance but came separately and avoided each other.
Lance and Madison had scheduled a rendezvous at Daddy’s suite for that night because it was located on the 22nd floor, one below the party floor. Lance couldn’t hide his excitement. Madison said she could get to Daddy’s suite somehow from the balcony. Madison had the spunk and athleticism to pull this off and Lance, playing his part, encouraged her; she sure added spice to his life.
Well into the party, Lance noticed Madison at the far end of the room unobtrusively slip out to the balcony. Minutes later, Lance thanked Melody and left the party.
“Madison? It’s your love bird,” cooed Lance as he gently knocked on the door to her Daddy’s suite.
“Madison?” repeated Lance, now showing some concern, knocked more loudly.
Just then the elevator opened and the property manager entered the hall.
“May I help you?”
You have to hand it to Lance, in addition to being bright, he was cool under pressure. He didn’t want to pass up turning Daddy’s suite into a romper room with Madison.
“Good evening, I’m Lance Steel …”
“Yes, Mr. Steel, I recognize you, anything wrong?”
“I’m a bit early for a meeting with the major, he’s probably in the shower. I’ll go downstairs and wait for him.”
“No need, here, let me help.” And with that, the property manager put his key in the door and said goodnight.
“Madison?” Lance called now inside the suite.
Still no response, the light from outdoors drew him to the balcony.
In the darkness, Lance almost tripped over a rope. Picking it up, Lance leaned over the balcony timed perfectly to be spotlighted by a police searchlight from below.
“Oh oh.”
Chapter three
If a person gets pushed over the edge of a life-threatening precipice, against one’s wishes, you can count on a couple of givens:
Screams from the about-to-be dearly departed and those around the about-to-be-dearly departed
Dramatic attempts by the about-to-be-dearly-departed to prevent the fall which means either scratches on the person next to the you know who or at least on anything nearby that could break the fall
As luck would have it, in this case, there were none of these. Unfortunately the weather wasn’t co-operating that night, rain and lightning so nobody was on the balcony. And nobody recalls Madison Arthur’s fall; there were no screams nor scratches.
I reviewed all the interviews, forensics and lab results but the mystery persisted; we couldn’t be sure of exactly what happened so I decided to look into Madison’s past. Why would somebody want her dead or why would she want to end it all? And since Lance was a suspect, and on the scene, I considered possible animosity between the two.
“Well Tillinghast, it’s been a week, what have you got?” bellowed Chief Falco.
Unlike the crime shows on TV where an ‘aha’ or two is forthcoming before the commercial break, I volunteered, “Nothing.”
“I don’t want this to become a cold case, R. T., the press is screaming and Madison was a populist politician. You want me to put J.J. on the case with you?”
I was tempted, that would shut him up. “No, I’m good, I’d like to work with Kayleigh, though, to see things through a classy gal’s eyes.”
“You got it and I want a report from both of you by the end of the week.”
Kayleigh, Kayleigh Quinn, a fair colleen and a first class, first class detective.
“Glad to be on board, Rupert, but J.J. says to be careful.
“Careful?”
“He says you’re a misogynist.”
“A what? Not like J. J. to use multisyllabic words. Those hours on the crosswords are paying off.”
“One who denigrates women.”
“I haven’t been denigrating since I found out what the word meant,” came Rupert’s supposedly off-putting defence.
“And you’re not that witty,” Kayleigh shot back.
“Back to being a misogynist, give me an example,” backpedalled Rupert.
“That joke you cracked the other day at J.J.?”
“I don’t recall.”
“J. J. didn’t laugh and you moved on to tell the same joke to Danya.”
“Is there a punchline to this story?”
“When she didn’t laugh, you went into great detail explaining the joke to her.”
“And that’s misogyny? I normally have to explain my jokes to J. J., too.”
“Just giving you a heads up, but I want to work with you.”
“I’m afraid to say anything. But you will correct me should I …”
“I’ll give you three swings. Tell me what you’re thinking about the case.”
Chapter four
“Melody, I want you to defend me.”
Melody’s professionalism stopped her from rolling her eyes. Can the mighty Lance Steel be begging? Can the leader of the hedonistic party actually have come down to earth? Is that a tear or did he just finish an onion sandwich?
“I’d be pleased to represent you, Mr. Steel.”
“Call me Lance.”
“Mr. Steel.”
“I can explain everything, well, mostly everything.”
“I’m sure, first thing, don’t explain anything to anyone. Whom have you spoken to about this?”
“Nobody that I can remember.”
“Can you make bail?”
“Yes.”
“Good, let’s get that settled and get you out of here.”
“I see where Lance has engaged Melody Morrison as his counsel,” cameKaleigh’s observation.
“She’s good … is that condescending?…”
“No, carry on, she’ll put up a formidable defense, I’ve seen her work.”
“OK, let’s review the case, Kaleigh.
“The big question is whether Lance pushed Madison or not. There are no witnesses yet Lance was there so he had the opportunity but why kill her? According to the press, this had all the appearance of a rendezvous. The word on the street is she’d already fallen when he got into the room so it was an accident.”
“It looks that way but we only have Lance’s word for it. And what did we decide about the rope?”
“This is how Madison had to get to the balcony from the top floor balcony.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kayleigh, “where did it come from if Lance didn’t bring it?”
“Well, her father testified that Madison visited with him that afternoon, she could have brought it and set it up on the balcony and made sure the balcony door to his suite was unlocked.”
(Kaleigh seriously) “So, do you think Lance was in the room with Madison? I’m pretty sure the defense will say Madison fell trying to come down to the balcony. But it’s easy to see that circumstantially, Lance was involved. He was there; he could have pushed her in fun and that’s grounds for manslaughter.”
(pause) “You know, Kayleigh, you’d look a lot cuter if you smiled more.”
“That’s one!”
“Oh no, I …”
“Yep.”
“Sorry. Back to work. What do we really know about these two?”
“Who knows about your romantic escapades with Madison Arthur?” questioned Melody.
“Not sure, we tried to keep it quiet. Her father would have run me out of town if he’d known.”
This will probably be the prosecution’s argument, you held their relationship over her; if she didn’t play your games you’d expose her and threaten her political career …”
“… this is crazy”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of ‘he said’ ‘she said’.”
Chapter five
Jury duty is a cattle call; a lot of people get a letter in the mail saying they’ve been chosen and you’ve no choice, you’ve got to appear.
Allow me to paint you a picture of a hypothetical day in the life of the jury selection process.
When you answer the call and show up in Room 3B, you quickly realize you weren’t one of a chosen few. The courts need lots of bodies to end up with a dozen and you quickly surmise more than half of the gathered throng would be happier to be somewhere else.
‘Do-your-civic-duty-and-uphold-the-democratic-process’ is a hard sell. ‘How do I get out of this?’ is the prevailing plea.
“I’m a part-time emergency room nurse, on call 24 hours a day.”
You’re excused. Next.
“I can’t serve on a jury, I need to work everyday, I’m a sole provider; eleven people depend on me.”
“What do you do?”
“I … uh … I’m a farmer, that’s it, a farmer.”
“And what do you farm?”
“Ah … medicinal herbs.”
“Take a seat over there. Welcome to jury duty.”
That’s just the first step, you do get another chance to dodge doing your civic duty if either the prosecution or defense doesn’t think you’d favour their client.
“Mr. Jones, what is your profession?”
“I’m an engineer.”
“And what is your responsibility?”
“I volunteer my services to help third world nations implement systems that use sustainable resources to provide their people with basic electric power and clean water. In my spare time I teach the less fortunate in these countries how to make pancakes out of flax seeds discarded by migrant monkeys. I pay for these trips myself.”
(The defense team then huddles to decide if this highly educated, in demand rational, reasonable family-man-church-going-pillar-of-the-community would be favourably disposed to their client who, though charged with dealing drugs to B celebrities from the back of his Range Rover, in his defense can still play the kazoo well enough to receive Arts Canada grants. This was a skill he perfected while being held back in junior kindergarten at reform school.
“Your honour we’re going to use one of our challenges and excuse this individual.”
So ends the hypothesis. In Lance’s situation, the defense is looking for liberal minded, red blooded frat boys of a partying persuasion whereas the prosecution would love to fill the seats with exemplary female graduates of Our Lady in Perpetual Pain primary school.
And so it goes till twelve people surface to face the jurisprudence tennis match between the defense and prosecution.
Chapter six
Rupert and Kayleigh had just finished a session with the prosecution team.
“Now what?” came Kayleigh’s query.
“We wait, hear what both sides have to say, we may be called to testify, and then wait again for the jury’s decision. Why the frown?”
“I just heard that I didn’t get the promotion. They said I was qualified and deserved it but they didn’t want to put that pressure on me. Can you believe that?”
“I’ve a confession. I was part of that decision.”
“That’s two.”
“Ladies and gentlemen on the jury, have you reached a verdict?” intoned the judge.
“No your honour,” replied the jury foreman. Gasps resonated around the panelled courtroom.
“Is there an opportunity to resolve the impasse? questioned the judge.
“No your honour,” came the reply.
“Then I declare a mistrial. Does the prosecution wish to retry the case?”
Brent Smithing, standing for the prosecution, “No your honour.”
“Then I declare the case dismissed and the defendant is free to go.”
(Sound of gavel)
“Well, well the return of the conquering heroes, at least you got a draw Rupert,” came the zing with a smile from J. J. as Kayleigh and Rupert entered the squad room.
“Probably the right decision,” concluded Rupert, “Lance was quite shaken by the experience, he certainly seemed overwhelmed. We could never nail down the time between Lance’s meeting with the property manager and when Madison fell. There was a gap, which probably caused reasonable doubt in the minds of some of the jurors.
“As the defense concluded, Madison, her recklessness combined with the bad weather, probably slipped and missed the balcony.”
“You’re probably right, Rupert,” said an understanding J. J. “You two did good work; now that that’s put that to bed, how ‘bout helping me solve the puzzle, what’s a 13 letter word for ‘A breathtaking murder’?”
“I hear you’re still struggling with the Philby case, J. J.”, Rupert reminded loudly enough so everyone in the room heard, “ … let me think, 13 letters eh?”
Rupert, enjoying himself and with a wink to Kayleigh let the tension build …
“How ‘bout ‘strangulation’?”
Epilogue
(Case windup office get together at Kayleigh’s apartment with Kayleigh at the piano playing ‘Moonglow’)
Rupert, admiring her playing, “I didn’t realize you could play the piano; that’s a favourite of mine.”
“Do you play Rupert?”
“Not at all, always wanted to, but if I could just make a suggestion …”
A story of intrigue, mayhem, gore, dastardly deeds … even deer flies all seasonally adjusted with bits of local lore and very little humour.
Well, it’s a murder.
“This better be ketchup.”
A Rupert Tillinghast mystery.
“Definitely, in all my years on the force, a mystery.”
Prologue
It wasn’t dark and stormy, not even a little bit overcast, the day we headed towards one of Ontario’s most picturesque cottage destinations, Parry Sound.
It was light, fair and warm which is what a late July day should be.
The Marchers generously opened their chalet to us for a few days to get away from the clutches of Covid-19. Well, to get away from where Covid-19 was on your mind all the time. The cottage was almost isolated and, of course, practically outdoors so masks and social distancing weren’t required. We were in for a touching few days.
The drive from Toronto, as you can see, is a pretty straight line on the multi-lane 400 highway.
The map’s white isn’t snow but as you move further north you do get a feeling that everything is more verdant from the urban living you left behind.
Road signs keep you amused:
Fresh French fries and gas.
“I’ll just have the fries, thank you.”
Slower traffic keep right.
This is a subtle way of saying that the left lane is for passing in Ontario. At one time this was the law, probably still is but drivers persist in hogging the left lane which means you have to pass them on the right which means that’s now the faster lane which means, if you follow the signs literally, in some cases, religiously if you’re the slower traffic, you should move to the shoulder, or ditch. A good defense if you’re left-lane-hogging-minded might be dyslexia.
In Switzerland, if you pass on the right, a giant native bird of preying, the great tit, (Careful how you Google this, you could end up at a porn site.) descends and removes your car from the multi-lane highway. Or worse, leaves an unremoveable deposit on your windshield, eye level. Switzerland, now that we’re on this topic and still letting cruise control lull you to Parry Sound, has you pay for the use of their super highways. Proof of payment is a sticker on your windshield. The naïve1not an umlaut, which would indicate a change in the vowel sound, but a diaeresis motorist, usually a tourist entering the land of Toblerone, who doesn’t sport such a sticker, gets stuck with the equivalent of a $100 fine and, just to rub it in, has to buy a sticker. Most Swiss police start their patrolling on the super highways at the border.
Once you pass Barrie on the way to Parry Sound (see map above), you not only leave civilization which pretty well covers the stretch from Toronto to Barrie but start to be impressed by the highwaymen (not the robbers) who had to chisel their way through some forgot-the-name 2Canadiangeographical shield. Cottagers must love non-cottage owners who helped pay for this four lane stretch of highway. There’s no commercial reason why there’s so much highway here. Doubtless, a politician has or had a cottage and bemoaned the time it took to spend a weekend near the water and signed up to be on the transportation board and immediately approved the egregious sum to get him to where he wanted to go faster.
The widening of the highway, though, did clean up the carnage that surfaced every summer weekend with cottagers racing to beat the other guy. Today’s trips of two hours were then known to take five.
We leave this asphalt non-jungle and take to the local roads to achieve our end point. Speaking of which, the address, a mere number hidden in the woods, is locatable on your GPS. Who knew? We’re 15 minutes away using driveable roads to get to the final disappearance into the brush.
The car, your car if you have the latest in warning signals, balks. Your car’s monitor, today almost the size of your first TV but in colour, tells you there’s an object ahead and you should detour. The object turns out to be the median between the ruts in the road that would challenge a Range Rover in high dudgeon. The median could also use a hair cut.
Your vehicle scrapes its way making a last ditch stand and voilà: the cottage, the forest, the lake and the silence welcomes you and eases out a uncontrollable smile; “You have reached your destination, your destination is on the right.”, 111 Bay Avenue Road.
Chapter one
The kid in you eagerly empties the trunk and rushes to take everything in as quickly as possible. While the distaff side responsibly puts everything away (although you did chill the beer and wine) you rush around to refresh your memory of memories past. (This had not been our first invitation.)
The cottage, situated on the inland lake Kingshott3The lake was named after Gordon Gerald Kingshott who was killed in action during the Second World War. The Canadian government had the commendable policy of naming lakes after their war dead, and Gordon is thus commemorated., is in pristine condition and warms you to lazing on the deck in brand new Muskoka chairs aka Adirondack chairs aka the only style of chair that seems to be legally allowed in cottage country. You know this chair: a curvaceous seat to handle the uncomfortable curves; a leaning fan back back-of-the-chair; large arm rests to handle any libation and give you the necessary leverage to extract yourself later without help or losing your pants; and, in some cases, the ability to tilt things in your favour. All guaranteed to support somnolent snoozing any time of the cottage day.
But all is not fun and games just yet. The master of the boarding party has to check things out: pump, check; water, check; hot water, wait a minute – check; electricity, check; fridge working, check; toilet working – please, check; stove working, check; coffee pot working, not sure but everything looks spot on including the spots on the porch.
Wait a minute, spots on the porch! Where did they come from? I look upward expecting to see a lion enjoying its kill.
“Sheila, what do these look like to you?”
The highly trained professional nurse of years past quickly assesses the situation and drawing on a medical master memory decidedly decrees, “Ketchup. Dried ketchup, now go and fire up the BBQ, chef.” But something’s not right; I pay attention when streaming detective shows. Ketchup stays red or at least redder than blood. I know, I know – blood isn’t the red it is on Murder She Wrote. Just as binoculars aren’t two circles when you see through themand see through the movies idea of what you should be seeing. No, this was blood. No ketchup sweetness to the nose. And the blood didn’t stop on the porch. There was blood on the railing, too.
“Sheila, look around in front of the porch to see if you can spot any unusual spots.”
“What part of ‘now go and fire up the BBQ, Bourdain,’ didn’t you comprehend, Sherlock?” came her pointed rejoinder. “And measles has been eradicated,” she added for good measure.
“Humour me Miss Child, have a look around, I’ll take the back of the cottage.”
Minutes of meandering produce nothing on my side.
“Anything your way?” I shout.
“I think I just killed …”
(Incredulously) “ … what?”
“. … a deer fly, gotcha.”
“Focus, Sheila, focus.”
“How ‘bout a body,” came a stilled voice.
“A body of what, water? A body of works? (we tend to take the entire output of an author on holiday to spot his self plagiarism.)
“How ‘bout a body of body.”
This is no time for high school humour. What in blazes is she up to? I scramble from my bramble patch and work my way towards the distant, “Oh Mys.”
But it is indeed a body. A non-moving form of indeterminate age, maybe in the sixties? A male body in working clothes with working-rough hands and glasses slipping off his head held by a hand as if he’d made a last grasp to save them.
Funny how when we’re in the throes of a fall, rather than try to save our un-athletic body from permanent damage and spread our hands to break the fall, we tend to focus on not spilling the glass of wine we’re holding or the gallon of paint or whatever that will generate a severe scolding, “You broke my mother’s favourite cup and saucer.”
“I think my femur is fractured.”
“You broke my mother’s favourite cup and saucer.”
“My femur is definitely finito.”
“It was her George VI and Queen Elizabeth commemorative cup and saucer. She treasured it.”
“I’ll give her my Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson commemorative cup and saucer.”
Sheila breaks the reverie, “Do you know him?”
“No and why should we, we’ve only been here a few times, never met anyone.”
“What do we do?”
“Call the police.”
“Maybe he just fell.”
(Rolling him over)
“Well, then his head fell on a bullet.”
Chapter two
Hello 911, what is the nature of your call?”
“We’re calling about a body.”
“A body of water; a body of work …”
“A body of body; someone’s been shot.”
“Let me put you through to the police.”
“Hello, Parry Sound police, sergeant Peters.”
Signs of better times
“Hello, we’re found a body.”
“A body of water, a body of work?”
“I don’t believe this … (sputtering) … a dead body.”
“Where are you?”
“111 Bay Avenue Road. Do you know that?”
“Yes, yes, we get a lot of garbage calls from there. Stay where you are, don’t touch anything, we should be there in 15 minutes.”
“Rupert … I’d like you in on this.”
“Jock, I’m on holidays and we’re to go fishing this morning.”
Rupert Tillinghast, detective of note, stationed out of 5th Division in Toronto. Famous for his unravelling of the mentally challenging, physically undemanding ‘Moriarty Mysteries’ that kept the tabloids busy for several issues. Alert, personable, no aquiline nose but with hair, lots of hair, and a dedicated mien that seeks out truth, justice and a good Chablis. Currently on vacation in Parry Sound as a guest of Jock Peters, long time associate and seeker of nothing more than a cheap plonk of red colouring. Hey, opposites do attract.
“Come on, it’ll be fun, won’t take long, these cottage types don’t know a speckled trout from a red herring, could be nothing.”
Jock Peters, Rupert Tillinghast and Virgil Pinkerton, Jock’s assistant deputy, lover of everything Bobby Orr4Parry Sound native Bobby Orr played in the National Hockey League (NHL) for 12 seasons (1966-1978), 10 with the Boston Bruins and two with the Chicago Black Hawks. Orr remains the only defenceman to have won the league scoring title. He holds the record for most points and assists in a single season by an NHL defenceman., arrive at the scene.
“Tape off everything, Virgil, and take notes,” Jock rattled on.
Meanwhile, Rupert ambled off on his own.
“So folks, explain in detail, what actually happened,” questioned Jock to the nervous twosome.
“Not so fast,” cautioned Virgil, licking the end of the stub of his Bobby Orr 4B pencil and then carefully forming the letters.
“It’s Ben Billings,” explained Jock, closely examining the body, “a local handy man. You sure you don’t know him?”
“Well, we’re not the owners, the Marchers probably know him, probably engaged him to get the cottage ready for us.”
“You could be right, I’ll confirm it with the Marchers. But why was he killed?” wondered Jock.
Virgil pipes in, “Pretty severe for doing shoddy work.”
Peters ignores the remark and concludes, “Looks like a 10 mm cartridge probably shot with a Glock 22. But why would anyone kill a harmless old guy like Ben? Beats me. Where’s Rupert?”
As if on cue, Rupert appeared seemingly enjoying his walk on the ubiquitous pine needles. “Who owns that new Ford 150 up on the road?”
“That’d be Ben’s,” answered Virgil.
“Any signs of what happened, Rupert?”
Not answering, Rupert headed for the dock.
Sheila and Roger, now sitting comfortably on the Georgian Bay chairs and being naturally hospitable, offered to get the police something to drink.
Both Jock and Rupert declined but Virgil requested, ‘a sarsaparilla’. Correctly interpreting the questioning looks, Virgil explained, ‘It’s what Bobby Orr drinks.”
Rupert returned.
“Well folks,” Jock started, vainly sucking in his gut and placing one foot strategically on a stump to gain importance, “Here’s how I see it. Ben here was doing some work for the Archers, early in the morning so it was dark, and since there have been a lot of break and enters in these parts, one of the neighbours fired a warning shot to scare him off and he was mistakenly killed. We’ll check with the neighbours. I’m sure it’s all a tragic mistake. I’ll hand the details over to you Virgil. Excuse me, do you have any red wine?”
Rioting St. David’s Day fanatics
Jock turned to Rupert. “Is that how you see it, Rupert? You must get this a lot in the city. Police called to quell a St. David’s Day celebration that gets out of hand. Police fire warning shots which inadvertently hit a couple having an affair on a balcony on the 23d floor. Poor Ben; wrong place at the wrong time. I like that. Include that in your report Virgil.”
Rupert clears his throat, Sheila and Roger struggle to get out of their Coureur-des-bois chairs to hear what Rupert has to say.
“I think the shooting was intentional but Ben wasn’t the target.”
Chapter three
What?” came the gasping chorus. Virgil swallowed his gum
Jock, a bit put off, longingly eyeing the bottle of fine red wine on the table, (I can adjust my taste, he reasoned), turned to Rupert and said awkwardly. “On what basis do you say that?”
Rupert explained. “As you said, Jock, why would anyone kill Ben? And that got me to thinking. Where did Ben get the money for the new truck? You told me he was a handy man, he can’t earn that much so Ben must have known something that someone wanted.”
“But if Ben knew something, why would you kill him?” Jock wondered, moving towards the wine.
“Good point. I think, once the killer got the information he wanted from Ben, he killed him to keep him silent. They obviously knew each other.”
“How did they do it? I didn’t see any signs of someone coming onto the property,” puzzled Virgil, scratching behind his ear with his Bobby Orr autograph ruler from his Bobby Orr signature geometry set.
“They came by water,” explained Rupert. There are signs of recent scrapes to the dock.
“Now what? Wondered Jock out loud.
“Let’s try to understand Ben a little more. What do you know about him? What’s his typical day?”
Sheila and Roger, no longer needed in the investigation, forcibly unclenched Jock’s fingers from the bottle of wine and settled into their Oastler Park chairs to drink in the rest of the day.
Rupert headed back into town.
Taking in the sights, Rupert walked to the main dock. The cruise ship The Island Queen was moored there. This tourist favourite promotes trips around the area’s boasted 30,000 islands and, indeed, this part of Georgian Bay is populated by what looks like a lot of bits of floating forest. He couldn’t help but wonder at the changes in travel from the early days when steamers were the only way to visit this part of cottage country. Scanning the harbour and looking east away from the water, the trestle bridge stands out for its height as it spans the gorge that defines the harbour. It wasn’t until the early 1900s, 1908 to be exact, that train travel opened up Parry Sound and gave travellers from Toronto a convenient alternative.
And now, of course, you can also fly into Parry Sound with the charter service catering to fishermen and sightseers.
(Back at police headquarters)
“Well Rupert, Virgil did some digging and none of Ben’s clients spent large sums with him; he basically opened and closed cottages, did odd jobs, and looked after them in the off season so I don’t know how he afforded that new truck and when I checked with the dealership, they said he paid in full. The Marchers confirmed that they’d asked Ben to do some plumbing for them and that’s why he was at their place.
“But Virgil did discover a bit of a head scratcher, Ben never worked on Fridays.”
Virgil quoting from his notes. “I phoned his work number and in addition to the usual ‘leave a message’ info, he said his business hours were 8 to 6 Monday through Thursday. You’d think Fridays would be a working day for a handy man. I confirmed that with his clients, he never worked Fridays.”
“What do you think, Rupert?”
“I’ve no idea, what can you only do on Fridays in Parry Sound?”“There’s Bingo,” offered Virgil, “my aunt Rowena plays there regularly but it doesn’t cost much and I never saw Ben there so I’d put that down as a ‘maybe’. She did win $18 which, to her, was substantial. What’ja think?”
“Let’s walk around and talk to the businesses in town,” Rupert suggested, “maybe something will turn up, why do you think he left town on Fridays? And, if so, why every Friday? I’ll need one of your portable phones.”
The three of them split up the town and starting knocking on doors.
“Rupert, Virgil?” Jock here, “I’m at Tailwinds, I think I’ve got something.”
“That’s the charter airline, right?
“Right, at the dock beside the restaurant, on the other side where the Island Queen is docked.”
“Where do they fly to?”
“Well, they’re seaplanes, so wherever there’s water,” Jock replied.
“I’ll be there in about 10 minutes, Jock.”
(Fairways’ office)
“Hi Jock, good to see you, planning a trip?”
“I wish. This is Rupert Tillinghast, Vern, a detective friend of mine up from Toronto, Rupert this is Vern who runs Georgian Bay Airways. Vern who flies for you?”
“A couple of guys, Miller James is our lead pilot, he’s out right now. What can I help you with?”
Rupert jumped in, “”We’re interested in any regular flights you might schedule, especially on Fridays.”
“Let’s see,” consulting his log book, “Well, Ben Billings usually books flights on a Friday.”
“Where does he go?”
“Manitoulin Island, Ben’s got his Mum there, she’s not well, makes a regular visit.”
“And where to on the island?”
Let’s see, “South Baymouth, that’s on the south eastern shore of the island.”
“Does that mean anything to you Jock?”
“Not sure where you’re going with this, Rupert, I’ve never been to Manitoulin island.”
“Are you up for a little trip guys? You can both swim, right?”
Virgil thoughtfully put the gum he was chewing behind his ear.
Chapter four
Manitoulin Island, which separates the North Channel and Georgian Bay from Lake Huron’s main body of water is the world’s largest lake island. Looking from high in space the island’s south coast is a perfect piece of the perimeter of a large circle that arcs from Lake Michigan in the west round the island and then down following the coastline of Lake Huron to the east. A remarkable geological, geometrical form.
“Whom do you know that handles police work on Manitoulin Island, Jock?
“Bill Holden looks after local squabbles, he reports into Sudbury.”
Our three intrepid truth seekers charter a Georgian Airways flight to the island and set out to try to understand if Ben had been more than just a thoughtful son.
After an uneventful 30 minute flight, Bill meets the plane and takes them to a local restaurant.
“How can I help you guys?” Bill questioned over coffee.
Jock started, “Would you know Ben Billings by any chance?”
“No, is he on your wanted list?”
“He’s a handy man back at Parry Sound, says he visits his mom regularly; she’s in a home here. Any idea where that would be? He flies into South Baymouth.”
“Closest home I can think of would be Wikwemikong.”
“Virgil, would you look into that, please, thanks.”
Rupert spoke up, “Who visits Manitoulin, Bill?”
“Well, the summer’s our biggest season. Boaters, sailors, fishermen; most come by water.”
“Where do they come from mostly, would they come from Parry Sound?”
“Not too many but we get a lot of Americans from as far away as Michigan; the Island has so much to offer for the boater. Let me give you a drive round.”
They dropped Virgil off at the home and drove into Gore Bay, the island’s capital.
“When you say a lot of Americans visit the island, where do they check in for customs?” Jock wondered.
“That would be Meldrum Bay, up on the north west corner of the island.”
“How does that work?”
“Well, it’s the honour system, actually,” explained Bill, “but if you don’t check in and get caught, we confiscate the boat so visitors are pretty honest.”
They headed back to pick up Virgil and catch a scheduled flight back to Parry Sound from South Baymouth.
“No record of Ben’s Mom at Wikwemikong,” Virgil reported, referring to his notes. “But of course, she could be at another place, there are several. But the staff said if you flew into South Baymouth, this would be the logical place.”
The only one in town
“Virgil, when we get back, would you take pictures of any American plates in the parking lot, please? Thanks.”
“Sure thing, Rupert. Is this one of those detective hunches? Jock’s never work.”
Chapter five
(Back at Parry Sound police headquarters)
Any ideas, Jock?”
“Well, Rupert, if Ben wasn’t seeing his Mom, why the trips to the Island?”
“Good question, maybe we should have another visit with Georgian Airways and today’s Friday. You didn’t tell Vern about Ben, did you?”
“No, I kept it quiet.”
“Good, let’s keep it that way for a while.”
(at Georgian Airways office)
“Hi Vern, you remember Rupert, we’re interested in any flights planned for Manitoulin Island today.”
“Funny thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, today is Friday, Ben’s usual day but Ben didn’t book the flight. You know Sam Armstrong? He said Ben was busy and asked him to take some things for his Mom. Ben said he’d pay for the flight. Armstrong’s right there waiting to board if you’d like to catch him.”
“Who’s Sam Armstrong?” Rupert asked Jock.
“Nice guy, local attorney, tough situation, his daughter got caught up in the local drug scene.”
“Would Armstrong have a gun?”
“Yes, as I recall, he’s licensed. Most people hunt up here.”
(Turning to Vern) “No, that’s fine, thanks Vern.”
Outside the office, Jock collared Rupert. “Why didn’t you talk to Armstrong and ask him what he was up to?”
“I have an idea, can you contact Bill Holden on the island? Here’s my thinking.”
Chapter six
(Back at police headquarters)
Jock? Bill Holden here from the island. Boy, you guys hit the jackpot.”
Virgil put the call on speaker phone.
“You were right, the plane lands and connects with a power boat, but then all hell breaks loose. This guy jumps out of the plane with a gun and starts shooting. The boat flies outta there and then the plane fires up to take off and the guy with the gun barely gets back on board. We took off after the power boat and caught up to it as it headed to open water heading south west away from the island. We’ve got everyone in custody, will fax you the details and await further instructions.”
“Thanks Bill, get back to you soon.”
Rupert takes charge, “Let’s go and meet that plane, guys, and Virgil, bring some handcuffs.”
(Georgian Air Lines, Parry Sound, Sam Armstrong’s flight just landed)
“Sam Armstrong, I arrest you for the murder of Ben Billings, please step out of the plane and put your hands behind your back. Anything you say will be taken down and can be used against you.” Virgil was bursting with pride and later confessed that he always wanted to be in a position to say something like that.
“Book the pilot, too, Virgil,” directed Rupert.
(Back at police headquarters)
“I’m all ears, Rupert,” a wonder-eyed Jockbegged his companion.
“I suspected your attorney friend, Sam Armstrong; after all, he knew Ben was dead. He had to be out for revenge for his daughter when he went after the occupants in the boat. Armstrong probably learned from his daughter that she got her drugs from the handy man, Ben Billings. But I’m pretty sure Armstrong wasn’t after Ben, he just wanted to know who was behind it all.
“Armstrong probably got Ben to talk on the threat of exposing his scheme and we’ll have to see if Armstrong pleads accidental death but I suspect Armstrong killed him intentionally to keep him quiet.”
“But why kill him at the Marchers, they’ll be really upset.”
“Perfect spot: isolated, neighbours not too close, hidden access from across the water, faded James Bay chairs on the deck give it that ‘somebody’s there’ look and feel so you wouldn’t be surprised to see some activity.”
“Good point,” added Jock, “and to make it even easier to get the jump on someone, they’re seldom there. I believe they have another chalet in Québec; probably friends with the Mulroneys.”
“They’d be known as Marché, there,” contributed Virgil, not wanting to be left out of the solution and suddenly imagining his grade IX French.
(Rupert continues the wrap up) “Ben took a regular Friday flight with the pilot, Miller James, who was in on this scheme and they hooked up with some Americans who, Bill Holden tells us, came over from Harrisville in Michigan. They got their drugs from Detroit.”
“Well, well, well,” mused Jock, “I’ll get back to Bill Holden on the island.
(A bottle of red wine appears) “Sorry Rupert, Chablis is just not on my shopping list, (Liberally pouring three glasses.) I can’t thank you enough.
“Man, we’re small town compared to you city guys but I think I see the big picture now. So, to cover all the bases, you cleverly had Virgil track down any US plates because if things didn’t ‘fly’, excuse the pun, here and something ever happened to Ben, they’d have backup to pick up the drugs and find a new distributor. How am I doing?”
Rupert suppresses a smile.
Jock steadies his glass on a Bobby Orr signed coaster and turns to Virgil with a determined look) “Virgil, go and check out the owner of that US plate and take some backup, I’ve a hunch things could get nasty.”
“I did follow up, Jock, when I took the picture.”
(shifting nervously in his chair) “And …”
“He’s a Bobby Orr fan, came up for some memorabilia.”
not an umlaut, which would indicate a change in the vowel sound, but a diaeresis
2.
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Canadian
3.
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The lake was named after Gordon Gerald Kingshott who was killed in action during the Second World War. The Canadian government had the commendable policy of naming lakes after their war dead, and Gordon is thus commemorated.
4.
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Parry Sound native Bobby Orr played in the National Hockey League (NHL) for 12 seasons (1966-1978), 10 with the Boston Bruins and two with the Chicago Black Hawks. Orr remains the only defenceman to have won the league scoring title. He holds the record for most points and assists in a single season by an NHL defenceman.
Yul Brynner died October 10th 1985 but lives on in our household.
Yul first entered our universe, Sheila’s actually, when Sheila, in her teenage years, took in a movie as part of a birthday celebration. The movie in question was Anastasia, also starring Ingrid Bergman, and there was no question that, in Sheila’s eyes, it (Yul, not necessarily the movie) deserved a second viewing so she and her great friend Elizabeth stayed on while the rest of the party departed.
I decided if Yul was going to be around I’d try to make use, as best as I could, of his presence.
Before going on, I should point out that I have hair and Yul did, too, but had it shorn for The King and I and it never came back. There is, therefore, no physical comparison between us and, to Sheila’s credit, she doesn’t expect me to compete head to head, so to speak.
No, it’s the subtle things like, ‘Yul can do no wrong,’ subtle things that I’m up against that I’ve tried to use in my defense.
“Give us an example,” you beseech.
OK, when I take that extra scoop of ice cream that in Sheila’s measuring eye is one scoop too many and can’t help but add a zinger that’s waist high, I quickly come back with, “You wouldn’t have said that to Yul.”
But Sheila’s too sharp to let that sit and zings back, “Yul wouldn’t have taken the extra scoop in the first place.”
Hard to rebut that as, anyone who remembers, Yul in his prime looked disgustingly fit. His bio said he’d spent some time in a circus and I suspect he wasn’t feeding the lions unless they can handle a trapeze.
But I’m truly up against a formidable opponent because I thought he, in his prime, in the manly sense, was pretty cool. I liked him in The Magnificent Seven. Fortunately that movie also starred some other cool guys like Steve McQueen so I wasn’t fixated on Yul.
I don’t think I would have done well in debating class if I had to oppose the challenge,
Yul Brynner is a cool guy.
I’m thinking my best strategy would be to question his coolness. “Well, sure he was cool, but how cool?” And then after some illogical meanderings that lead nowhere sit down and hope there weren’t any young maidens of an impressionable age on the defense team.
But all this is just a prologue to one of the eternal mysteries of co-habitation: male defense when you have no defense. How do you handle reasonable questions of your questionable behaviour without resorting to the behaviour of a three year old?
“We needed a sit down lawn mower,” doesn’t stack up too well against, “We have, what, 40 square feet of yellow grass?”
“You said you were going to get a set of new tires, you came back with a new car.”
Again, pointing out to anyone, let alone to your spouse, that a new car comes with a set of new tires doesn’t get you votes towards a Nobel prize.
“I asked you to buy a hose, a garden hose for our terrace. What you decided to invest our life savings in could be classified as standard equipment for a fire station. If we had a tree that caught on fire, often, I might be sympathetic. And it’s orange; what, in the name of the primary colours prompted you to get something that charitably goes with nothing and sticks out like an overgrown snake with carotenemia?”
I decided not to go with, “You can easily find it in the winter to bring it in,” and stood my ground with, “It’s a real hose, those other things fall apart when you drive over them.”
I realized too late that we’d given up a driveway when we gave up our house for the condo and condo rules, I’m pretty sure, don’t allow cars on terraces.
So, out of ideas, I came back to Yul and tried to knock him down so that the next time I’m zinged I can come back with an appropriate and biting, “Well, Yul, yes your Yul, wrote graffiti on the Kremlin wall.” Or whatever it was that he did that he shouldn’t have.
Actually, Yul has a pretty impressive bio: worked hard, did well, was kind to small animals; nothing nasty but then … there it was … an aha! Yul smoked!
I digress, but when you stream today’s entertainment, the warnings that precede the show, the warnings designed to shield you from a sleepless night, include, in addition to sex, nudity, foul language, mayhem, gore, lots of gore that never changes colour, destruction of fine cars etc. is ‘smoking’. Who knew? Who knew how prescient Yul was. He not only died of it, throw in a circus fall or two, but he created a short film clip that told the world not to smoke which lives on today to be included in the you-might-not-want-your-mother-to-watch-this list of Netflix warnings.
So now when Sheila challenges my sanity and good sense and evokes her touchstone of leadership, I fight back with, “Well, Yul smoked!”
First of all the provenance of this safety valve for the light of mind:
The expression comes from a 1742 Thomas Gray poem (‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College’): “Where ignorance is bliss, ’tis folly to be wise.”
(David Lehman sheds the following:)
The ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College,’ in its general contours, is a romantic poem of return, with some similarities to Wordsworth’s “Tintern Abbey.” In both poems the poet returns to a place after an interval of years; he feels the change as a loss; he recollects the past and looks to the future. Wordsworth’s poem travels from melancholy at the passing of youth to the compensations of maturity. But Gray’s poem is more radical, the poet less willing to talk himself out of his gloom.
To the present and to the practical, not the poetic.
I am familiar with garden fountains as this will be our second. The first had a pump that continually1To the interested, ‘continuously’ would indicate duration without interruption. This pump interrupted. needed cleaning thanks to surroundings populated by naturally defoliating trees and a fall season that seemed to go on all year. The process was simple enough; you dismantled everything and gave it a blast of the hose dislodging things better not described for the faint of heart.
Fountain #2 (see below) presented a sickly display; water dribbled from one catch through four more to then repeat itself but the spray was not inspiring. “Time to clean out the old pump,” came the conclusion and command. To the uninitiated and mildly interested this is a three step process:
Clean the pump itself and adjust the water volume valve
Clean the bit of tubing that connects the pump to the fountain
Clean the whatever that connects the bit of tubing to the top of the fountain. Could be plastic tubing or, in this case, a metal tube of some metric measure
Now that’s a fountain: Late Greek Doric bowl supported by a plinth of some description all topped off with a touch of modern Japanese zen.
Scientific analysis:
The pump itself is fine; clean and set to full power
We’ll get to this
The whatever is fine; no obstructions nor leaks; should sustain the pump at its best effort.
Fountain of sickly display…
Now a look at number 2, the bit of tubing between the pump and the base of the fountain. It works, but barely, so it must be plugged.
“Aha,” you say, “science to the rescue but hardly a scientific revelation.”
“Not so fast,” I counter, “an obstruction, yes, but a planned obstruction.”
“I know not of which you speak,” you query staying in the ode mode, and well you should ask.
“It’s a purposeful plug of plastic to meter the water, control the flow, if you will.”
“And … ,” say you filling the momentary gap knowing there’s more.
“…. And, within the plug is another plug! With teeny, tiny holes to finely regulate the flow.2So, what did I do? I removed both plugs so that now the fountain is a well of wondrous water that keeps admirers at a safe distance.
“Eureka,” you wonder in true Archimedian fashion.
“Yes, these clever people have provided all the tools to manage water flow for every occasion. But do the instructions illustrate this complete package? No. I did not know there was a plug in a plug. Therefore, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I instruct you to unanimously deliver a verdict of, ‘ignorance is not bliss’.”
… no more
The second episode in this truly exciting testament to poking holes in Thomas Grey’s pronouncement takes me to the car dealership that understands my vehicle.
When you deign to buy a cargo net for your trunk … allow me to elucidate the item in question for those who net no cargo … this is a woven piece of material that is strung, hammock like, from one side of your trunk to the other. It’s suspended to prevent things near and dear to you, how ‘bout a bottle of booze?, from rolling around and, worse, breaking and breaking your heart.
The instructions, lo all two pages of them, show you roughly where the loops will affix inside the trunk.
Period. That you could have guessed.
The instructions do not explain the bag of bits that accompany the netting. Your highly educated brain and years of experience in such matters cannot make any sense of any of the items. You hopefully conclude they’re for other models of your brand but you do ponder. So you get in the trunk and after the physically demanding exercise of getting into and extricating yourself out of the turtle position you conclude that there are some holes where the some of the bits in the bag could go. But how do you attach them?
(aside) I appreciate that the engineers have other challenges to occupy their time, One being, “How do you make an engine and how do you make an engine work reasonably well?”
(aside now put aside) So why should anchoring a cargo net demand more than sticking a couple of hooks in the trunk? Why didn’t they do it?
Let’s assume the engineers got the engine to work reasonably well and were congratulating themselves as they waved the car off the assembly line and never gave a moment’s thought to attaching a couple of hooks for the cargo net.
And when did they wake up and cover their coveralls by cobbling together the necessary bits and pieces? Most likely when the buyer of the car is a shopping mom who says, “Where’s the cargo net?”
Cargo net installed. Just not in my car.
Admitting defeat, another-dumb-customer-who-can’t-figure-out-a-simple-task-like- installing-a-cargo-net, and I contact the dealership.
“You need a special tool, only dealerships have it.”
I rest my case.
Note to the astute reader: The topic above appeared before, in a different context, in the blog entry, ‘Musings from a Sunday.’ Apologies but as my Mother would say when we pointed out that we’ve already had the pleasure of one of her bromides, “Bears repeating.”
i ordered this year’s licence plate sticker on line today (note day above) which reminded me of days of yore when you lined up, outside, in 40 below (either scale) temperatures, along with 10,000 other unfortunate souls, during the week no less, to get a new piece of metal.
There were some pluses: you got a new plate with a new number which meant you could proudly nail the old plate to the inside wall of your garage to cover up the gaps in the wall and you got to wait expectantly to see if your new plate were unique like 000 001. And the wait expectantly continued with how the new colour combination would clash with your car’s paid-extra-for paint. Then some bitter soul, doubtless cold from waiting in line mentioned above, pointed out that those special numbers were reserved for special people and they didn’t have to line up to get them.
The cynic in me suspects that one of those special people ran the licence bureau.
My hope is that since the computer and I are doing all the work to get my ‘sticker’ that the number of employees to handle the processing has dropped from several hundred to two: somebody to mail me my sticker while the other’s on break.
Speaking of expired license plates, I had let it slip one year so, when this happens, you can’t do it via the computer but must show up at the license bureau. I believe it’s so they can give you a ‘naughty boy’ lecture-and-look and probably take an extra dollar from you. In any case, I was assuming my ‘What are the odds?’ fear that I’d be stopped driving to the bureau with expired plates. At the next stop sign, I checked my rear view mirror to see if the constabulary were lurking and the older driver behind me, not of the police persuasion thankfully, was focused on my car and was definitely and defiantly pointing at my expired sticker. I swear that had he gone for his phone I would have caused a commotion.
(Lead article in tomorrow’s Daily Drivel) “Talk about road rage; old person in car with expired plates, stumbles out of his car and shuffles menacingly towards older person in car behind who was wagging a pointing finger at old person’s expired sticker. Old person menacingly taps on older person’s window and older person wisely turns off his phone. It was that close to becoming a fuss.” – editor
Why are older men allowed to drive? Have they nothing better to do than look for things that nobody with an ounce of testosterone would be interested in? There are drop dead gorgeous females wearing nothing at all out there walking the streets, look for them and at them! Leave my plates alone!
This story had a happy ending and since then I’ve been diligent in renewing my plates ahead of time. But check with me in a year’s time.
took in my car for its first time servicing the other day. Always a scary event; they find so much that’s wrong and expensive to fix with the car. How do they do that? How could I be the cause of that? I just drive the darn thing.
“Looks like you’ve been making an awful lot of left turns, Mr. Legon.”
“How if I turn right into my neighbour’s driveway then back up onto my driveway; would that balance things out?”
One thing the modern car dealership does in a neat way is have you drive over a sensing board embedded in the floor that tells you about your car’s alignment and tire wear. The information is immediately displayed on TV monitors by the service reps’ desks. You can tell that your alignment and tire wear are OK by the disappointed looks on their faces.
While I’m on about the service department, with all this technology, what’s with all the people? You drive up to the service door that automatically opens to let you be greeted by the aforesaid automated tire assessors which doubtless have also read your licence plate which automatically knows the car’s VIN which stores every last thing about your car. “When did you start parking on curbs?”
You have the feeling that if you stayed in the car you’d never need to see anyone: your car would automatically get washed and the oil changed somehow. At the end of this automated service assembly line you’d just insert your credit card to cover the amount flashing at the exit barrier and up goes the arm.
But no, once you’re through the service door that automatically opens, you’re greeted by an individual with an iPad that has all your information. This same bunch of data is immediately available to the service reps’ desk who eagerly awaits your presence. So far, you’ve done all the work and yet the system has decided two people must accompany the process. You mentally add several dollars to your bill under the section ‘family retainers’.
To officially get the car service process moving, however, you have to put your signature to paper. It’s the year 2020, what’s with all the paper? Up to now, in the car servicing process, everything’s been digital but somehow that’s not good enough. If McDonald’s can show your order on a TV monitor for the retirée to fill, then a car dealership can do the same thing for the junior trainee mechanic considering your car.
Your wonder of wonders, your smartphone, the whiz bang gadget that can get you into the theatre without producing paper; that can pay for your parking without producing paper; that can prove to anyone who your are without producing paper cannot get your car serviced without producing paper. Remind me to buy stock in Montreal based Abitibi Bowater, the eighth largest pulp and paper company in the world.
But all this automated sensory sensing got me to thinking; couldn’t a doctor’s office get on this bandwagon?
“Mr. Legon, I’m Gisele, your service representative. We’ve introduced some new technology to both help us be as knowledgeable about you as we can and service your needs as quickly as possible – another gold star for socialized medicine. Would you please step on that sensing board embedded in the floor that you can’t avoid? Thank you.”
“Oh …. I notice you pronate. The doctor will certainly want to have a look at that.”
(doctorial sound from down the hall) “Oh ….”
“Oh oh …and the wear on your left foot is more than on your right foot.”
(doctorial sound from down the hall) “Oh oh …”
And why not have doctors’ offices install the body scan that embarrasses you at the airport?
“Good looking liver Mrs. Gowski, seems to be handling your bottle-a-day chardonnay nicely.”
And wouldn’t that also speed up the parts delivery?
“Thanks to your body scan, Mrs. Feldstein, while you were waiting absorbed in the picture magazine, ‘What the Royals do to work up a sweat,’’ we were able to order you a reconditioned spleen.“
Can’t leave the dealership without a word about the sales department.
I’ll call him Donald, which is what his mother calls him even though his friends know him as ‘Tub’.
Donald is pushing early sixties, grey hair, paunch, suit, somewhat off-white shirt but no tie and wearing what we politely call in the fashion world, doesn’t-go-with-anything deck shoes. And his feet have got the senior shuffle down pat. You can’t greet Donald with a non-car topic without a rejoinder that somehow embeds some unrelated feature of a car you’re not interested in on which you suspect he gets his biggest margin.
“Nice day.”
“Nice day for air-conditioned seats made of faux-corinthian leather only available on this week’s hybrid special.”
Donald makes no effort to prospect. You suspect that if someone didn’t walk into the showroom, plop down at his desk and sign a blank cheque, Donald would miss his sale-a-month quota.
“How was your day, dear?”
“Busy, busy, busy; you can’t imagine what today’s car buyer wants?”
“Understanding their needs and value?”
“All they want is a discount.”
“What about understanding their needs and value?”
“I know what they want. And you can’t sell them value, value doesn’t get the old pulse pumping and, anyway, you wouldn’t understand the subtleties of selling.”
“You know that table saw that you never use? Mr. Caruthers, next door, wanted to build a fence and when I found out he didn’t have a table saw and explained how much you got out of one, he expressed an interest and I said he could have it ….”
“What?”
“… for $400. You paid what? $600 a few years back? I also threw in a weekend of your time to explain its dated features.”
the car saga continues. Made the big decision to buy a certified car part. You know the dilemma: do I spend $150 for something that fits and bears the car’s brand name or 2. Do I spend $19.95 for something that should fit and has ‘Tom’s Garage’ prominently displayed.
We’ve all been through the exercise, rationalizing the ‘el cheapo’ purchase and not sleeping at night.
So, I bit the bullet and got the over-priced-brand-product (OPBP to save going mad retyping this descriptive phrase). The OPBP includes instructions, crude instructions that don’t begin to match the accompanying bag of parts. You conclude that this is an OPBP one-size-fits-all-models (No, I’m not going to use OPBPOSFAM) and hence comes with a bag of bits and pieces to cover every known model most of which your model doesn’t need.
But I’m on top of it. Rather than drive from the dealership and realize something’s just not right and having to return, I decide to install the cargo net, yes, a cargo net in the dealership’s parking lot. What could go wrong? We’re not talking fluid mechanics here with the required years of education and experience.
The object is to install four hooks to hold the cargo net and bless me if two hooks aren’t already there. Sure pays to buy the deluxe model. This further confirms my suspicions that this OPBP is truly OPBPOSFM (Sorry, I lied, you’ll have to go back.)
What could be simpler, only two hooks to install but the limited instructions suggest that they be installed in some unimaginable spot.
The following had to have made someone’s day. I get in the trunk, turn around so now I’m lying on my back in the trunk with my feet dangling outside. This is the only way I can see inside the trunk where the limited instructions say the cargo net is to be attached.
Someone has to be watching me when I decide to try to get out of the trunk. We’re I younger, I could probably slide out and laugh this off. In my present state, I’m faced with the strong possibility of not getting out of my trunk. I figure the odds are 50 -50 that getting back out the way I came in will be just as painful and awkward as releasing the back seats and exiting through the back door mens sana in corpore sano.
“Hey, Rosy, come at look at this idiot stuck in his trunk feet flailing away.”
I get out the way I came in, leg cramps and all, barely landing on my two feet.
I look around, do a little dusting to give me time to regain consciousness, admit failure, humble myself and return to the dealership. The following conversation is verbatim.
(speaking to service rep) “I need help installing the cargo net, it looks like it needs a special tool.” (can’t believe I’m saying this … a cargo net needs a special tool? Really? Then installing a turbo charger would need NASA.
(service rep) Totally stunned, I would have had more success asking him to decline a Latin verb of his choice. He’s saved by a passing overalls-with-name-tag that hints at working in another department. Service rep explains, overalls-with-name-tag says you need a special tool to install a cargo net (I’m partially chuffed; hey, I know what I’m not doing.)
I politely wait for the expected answer but instead get, “Fred has the special tool.” (Pause) “Fred’s in quarantine.” (Pause) “The special tool’s in Fred’s toolbox. (Pause) “Only Fred has the key.” (Pause) “Fred has the keys with him.”
I’m home now. I’m starting to act sensibly (there’s nobody around). It can’t be this hard so I search the internet. Of course there’s no video that exactly matches my car but the first video that qualifies in theory says it takes 48 minutes to install a cargo net in my make (not necessarily year or model) of car. I start to watch. Here’s this seasoned pro ripping apart the trunk and using tools that need a compressor to get up to high speed.
I go back to the car. It can’t be this hard and I think I’ve figured it out. To test my theory, I take out the cargo net and hook it onto one ring and then stretch it to hook it onto the ring across the way and …
… the cargo net is 30 cm short.
Epilogue
Well, it’s eat crow time for me. Found detailed, illustrated instructions on the internet provided by a US Honda dealer, not corporate Honda. And, it turns out, you do need a special tool to affix the rivets to the trunk door frame. I’ve a call into the local dealership to see if they’ll let me borrow this precious item because I don’t want to pay them to do it. (Because I’ve already paid for the cargo net; how much? I don’t want to tell you how much I paid for this woven wonder obviously hand made by Chinese maidens.) And the already-installed hooks are not for this item; they’re just hooks. So I have to install the supplied hooks and that involves drilling holes into the trunk liner. They cautiously advise you to make sure to mark the depth of the drill bit otherwise you could add vent holes to your trunk … Stay tuned.
