Hiding in Plain Sight Read online

  HIDING IN

  PLAIN SIGHT

  A Shelby Belgarden Mystery

  HIDING IN

  PLAIN SIGHT

  Valerie Sherrard

  Copyright © Valerie Sherrard, 2005

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other-wise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  Editor: Barry Jowett

  Copy-editor: Jennifer Gallant

  Design: Jennifer Scott

  Printer: Webcom

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Sherrard, Valerie

  Hiding in plain sight / Valerie Sherrard.

  ISBN-10: 1-55002-546-5

  ISBN-13: 978-1-55002-546-0

  I. Title.

  PS8587.H3867H52 2005 jC813′.6 C2005-900170-4

  1 2 3 4 5 09 08 07 06 05

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program and The Association for the Export of Canadian Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation’s Ontario Book Initiative.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credit in subsequent editions.

  J. Kirk Howard, President

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on recycled paper.

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  This book is affectionately dedicated with love and

  thanks to my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Alf Lower,

  who planted the seed that grew.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a warm, sunny morning early in August — a perfect day to hang out with friends by the river or just goof off around town. In my case, though, I didn’t have anywhere in particular to go. The house was empty when I got up, so I was kind of rattling around, antsy and in the mood to go somewhere.

  A note in the kitchen told me that Dad was at work and Mom had gone off on some picture-taking excursion. She’d started off as a total amateur a few years back but she got some books and learned a lot about photography and developing pictures and all that stuff. Now, she sells some of her work to the local paper — mostly wildlife pictures or candid shots of townsfolk.

  My boyfriend, Greg, was away with his dad, visiting relatives in Russell, Ontario. I’d never even heard of the place before Greg had told me they were going there, but I’d discovered it was a little town near Ottawa. According to Greg, it was so small that it didn’t even have a theatre.

  My best friend, Betts, was away too. That was really aggravating, because the last time I’d talked to her she’d been pretty upset — so upset, in fact, that she couldn’t even talk about it. I hadn’t found out what was wrong before she left with her folks for summer vacation. They go away for a whole month, and there are still two weeks left, so I won’t be able to find out what was bothering her until she gets back. If it was even something important enough that she remembers it, that is. Betts is kind of, well, inclined to overreact at times. It’s perfectly possible that she’ll have forgotten the whole thing by the time I see her again — after me worrying about it for the past few weeks.

  Anyway, as I was saying, I really had nowhere to go, which was a thought that kept popping into my head as I laced up my runners. Still, I wasn’t going to sit around the house all day. I’d been doing that for the last two weeks, on account of being grounded.

  I’d rather not talk about that, though, since it seemed a bit harsh to me, considering that the trouble I’d been in had been for a good cause. My folks had actually agreed with me about that, but they had still insisted on giving me stiff consequences for it.

  So, there it was, the first day I was allowed out, and I had nothing in particular to do. I thought maybe I’d just take a walk around, in case I happened to meet up with someone from school or whatever.

  I headed across town, taking the route I normally use when I’m going to Greg’s place. Instead of turning where I usually do, though, I kept on to the town square, where a cluster of stores form the perimeter of a park. The park has a few benches and a bunch of flowerbeds, with a big statue of some guy named Lord Beaverbrook in the middle. I don’t know who he is, but there are a few buildings around here named for him, so he must have done something important at some point in history.

  It briefly crossed my mind that I could go to the library and look up this Beaverbrook dude, but I dismissed it pretty fast. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to know what was up with him and all, but this wasn’t the day for it. It was too nice out, and I’d been trapped indoors for too long.

  I avoided walking through the park itself, though that would have been the quickest route to the next street I was going to take. I’m sure the whole spot was designed to be a nice, peaceful place to sit when you’re out shopping, but it sure isn’t like that. There are always a few people hanging around the benches, but they’re generally not the sort you’d want to park your grand-mother beside if she needed to rest her feet for a bit.

  Usually, it’s mainly guys hanging around there. Most of them are in their twenties, but there are exceptions, and they range anywhere from a few years older than me to pretty old, like in their forties or even fifties.

  It’s not that they’re actually doing anything wrong, at least not that you could see right off, but they’ve definitely taken over the park and now no one else uses it. The best I can explain it is that their presence creates a kind of atmosphere that doesn’t exactly invite anyone else in.

  As I skirted around it I got thinking about that and wondering what it was about these guys that so completely discourages anyone else from using the park. Was it accidental or something they did deliberately?

  I know one thing — their appearance probably has a lot to do with it. Most of them look as though they’ve taken a pretty relaxed approach to personal hygiene, to the point that you’d have to wonder if they even had access to running water. Their clothes back up the apparent philosophy that cleanliness is highly overrated.

  I was trying to decide if this was enough to ensure that others stayed away, or if there was more to it, when my attention was caught by the sound of a siren. In fact, it nearly made me jump out of my skin, the sudden blast screaming into the air on the next street over.

  Naturally, I was curious. Who isn’t, when they hear a siren?

  The most annoying part for me is that I can’t tell one emergency vehicle from another. I guess they must make different sounds, but I never know if I’m hearing a police car or an ambulance or a fire truck.

  It seemed like a good idea to check it out, just to see if there was anything astir. My conscience tugged at me just the slightest bit because I’d more or less promised Greg that I’d steer clear of trouble while he was away. I dismissed that by telling myself I wasn’t really interested, but that I should check it out for Betts. She
loves to hear everything that’s going on and she’d be so proud of me if I had a tidbit for her when she got back home.

  I hurried along the street to the corner, where I quickly discovered that the source of this particular siren had been an ambulance.

  I told myself again that I wasn’t being nosy, though it was getting a bit hard to convince even myself. Then I sauntered casually in the direction the ambulance had taken. It came to a stop near a building that was familiar to me, which helped me persuade myself that I really should check out what was going on. Just in case it involved someone I knew or something.

  It’s kind of hard to look nonchalant when you join a crowd of people who are standing around waiting to see who happens to be sick — or, for that matter, dead. I mean, we all knew why we were there, yet we were all acting like our interest was somehow legitimate, instead of macabre, which is closer to the truth.

  I swear, I never used to be the least bit interested in stuff like that. A year ago I’d have walked right past and never given it a thought. Lately, though, I seem to run into trouble on a regular basis, and I guess my outlook is changing because of that.

  It seemed to take the ambulance attendants a long time to come back out. When they finally appeared, a stretcher rolled between them. With a start, I recognized its occupant as Howard Stanley, an octogenarian I’d met there recently when I was sort of doing an investigation. He was a sweet, helpful old guy, so it was alarming to see him grimacing in obvious pain as he was rolled toward the back of the ambulance.

  I briefly considered going in to ask the landlady if she knew what was wrong with him, but she’s not the sort you can get a sensible answer out of very easily. I abandoned that idea and decided I was going to have to mind my own business after all.

  It’s weird how bad I felt the rest of the day, thinking about poor Mr. Stanley. Having met him only once, it wasn’t as though I knew him well or anything. Still, he’d been so nice. On top of that, I’d gotten the impression that he didn’t have a lot of visitors. If I remember correctly, he has a daughter somewhere in town, but it seemed to me that he only saw her on Sundays. I suppose the rest of the week would be pretty long, all alone in an apartment.

  That’s when I remembered Ernie.

  Mr. Stanley didn’t live all alone after all — he had a cat. I pictured how the little thing had been curled in a ball on the floor while his owner and I chatted, and I got to worrying about who was going to take care of him while Mr. Stanley was in the hospital.

  Probably his daughter would do it. But who knew for sure?

  The next morning, still bothered by the thought of both the old guy and his cat, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to pop over to the hospital to see him. That way, I could make sure he was okay and that someone was taking care of Ernie.

  And I wasn’t just being nosy. Honest!

  CHAPTER TWO

  Abored-looking lady at the reception desk typed Mr. Stanley’s name into her computer and then told me his room number. Her voice was flat and she kind of looked past me while she gave me the information. I felt as though I’d inconvenienced her horribly somehow.

  I thanked her anyway, or, I should say, I thanked the top of her head, since she was already bent forward again, looking at some papers spread out on the desk.

  Mr. Stanley’s room was on the second floor. When I emerged from the elevator, signs with arrows and numbers told me to go left. I followed the directions to his room, hesitating outside the door.

  I’d met him only once before — he was sure to think it odd that I’d come to see him. He probably wouldn’t even remember me. I nearly turned back, but I just had to find out for sure that his cat, Ernie, was okay. I couldn’t stand the thought of the poor little thing left alone, maybe starving.

  The first thing that struck me when I walked into his room was how pale and shrunken he looked compared to the other time I’d seen him. I hoped my face didn’t show the shock of seeing him like that. I guess if you’re old and in the hospital, you’d just as soon not see people looking at you all horrified.

  “Hello, Mr. Stanley?” I felt stupid at how that came out as a question. I knew who he was all right. There was no need to sound like I wasn’t sure.

  “Yes.” He squinted a bit, like he was trying to get me in focus. “Well, this is a surprise. You’re that girl, the one who came looking for her friend not long ago.”

  “That’s right!” I said. I could hardly believe that he remembered and recognized me.

  “No need to sound so amazed,” he kind of chuckled. “I broke my hip, not my head.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Then I realized how that sounded, like I was sorry he hadn’t broken his head. I stammered something out, trying to explain, but he was laughing.

  “I guess you’re not in a lot of pain or anything,” I observed.

  “Not now,” he said, still grinning. “I was yesterday, all right. It hurt something fierce. Once the surgeon had righted things, though, it was okay. ‘Course, they have me on some painkillers, too.”

  “Well, I’m glad it wasn’t anything more serious than a broken bone,” I said. “I happened to be walking by your place yesterday when the ambulance came. That’s how I knew you were here.”

  “It was real kind of you to come,” he said, his face growing serious. “Time seems to drag along awful slow when you’re in the hospital.”

  “Will your daughter come to see you very often?” I asked.

  “Well, she will when she can. She has her job, though, and her kids. Makes it hard for her.”

  “And what about your cat, Ernie?” I asked. “Is someone taking care of him?”

  “Not yet.” Worry crept into his eyes. “I was trying to get in touch with Eldred, an old friend of mine, to ask him to look in on the little guy, but I haven’t been able to reach him yet.”

  “I’d be glad to help out, if there’s anything I can do,” I said.

  “Thing about Ernie,” Mr. Stanley sighed, “is that he’s not used to being alone. I might have mentioned before that he’s a bit on the nervous side. I’m sure I can find someone to put food out for him, but what he really needs is to be around people.”

  “What if I took him to my place until you get home?” I asked. It occurred to me that it might have been a good idea to check with my folks about that first, but the way Mr. Stanley’s face lit up at my words, I decided to worry about that later.

  “That’d be ideal!” he said. “He liked you, you know, when you met him at the apartment a little while back. I could tell.”

  “I liked him, too.” I smiled, thinking it seemed a bit preposterous that Mr. Stanley thought he could actually tell whether or not his cat had liked me, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Well, that’s just grand,” he proclaimed. “Takes a load off my mind, I can tell you.”

  Then he got me to look in the little locker beside his bed. I rummaged through his stuff, which smelled faintly of some kind of aftershave, located his keys in his pants pocket, and stuck them in my own pocket. It was kind of weird to think he was just handing me the keys to his place without knowing anything about me, really.

  “He has tins of food in the cupboard under the kitchen sink. Should be a dozen or so there, lots to keep him going until I’m back up and about. There’s dry food, too. I leave some out for him most of the time, and he’ll eat it, but he prefers the tins.”

  “Do you have a pet carrier for him?” I thought to ask.

  “Yep. In the hall closet, just inside the door. I put him in it when he goes to the V.E.T.” He paused and laughed. “I guess I don’t need to spell that now, since he’s not here. He knows the word, though. I’ve gotten in the habit of spelling it out so he won’t suspect anything when he has to take a trip there.”

  Right. I suppose when you get on in years, you can start getting a bit shaky in the reality department. I smiled and nodded as though it was normal to think a cat could figure out what you were talking about. No sense hurtin
g the old guy’s feelings.

  I stayed for a bit longer, but it was clear to me that Mr. Stanley was actually getting anxious for me to leave. I think it was because he was eager to have Ernie taken care of. I gave him a pat on the hand as I was going and told him not to worry about the cat, that I’d take good care of it.

  It’s funny how our chance encounter earlier in the summer had brought this unexpected cat-sitting job about. You just never know what kind of turns events will take and what they’ll end up meaning in your life.

  I was thinking about this as I made my way back to the apartment building. I was also thinking that it wouldn’t hurt if Mom happened to be in a really good mood when I showed up with a cat.

  We haven’t had a pet since our dog, Brownie, got hit by a car and died two years ago. I brought the subject up a couple of times, but Mom just said we’d talk about it another time — only we never did. She’s not much of a cat person, either. Keeping Ernie at our place isn’t going to be an easy sell.

  The only thing that might save me is that Mom is kind-natured and won’t want to think of it suffering. I’ll need to try, without actually lying, to make it sound like there were no other options.

  When I reached Mr. Stanley’s apartment and let myself in, Ernie came along right away, though his movements were cautious and wary. By the way he approached me I could see he was nervous but determined. I guess the little guy had been lonely. It was a relief to see that there was still a bit of dry food in his bowl, though it was pretty low. It looked like I’d gotten there just in time.

  I patted him and talked soothingly to reassure him that I wasn’t going to harm him. Then I went to fetch the carrier, so I could get him to my house before my mom got home.

  I had this vision in my head of getting there and having her standing at the doorway with her arms crossed, shaking her head side to side and telling me there was no way that cat was coming inside. I figured that if he was already in, my chances of persuading her to let us babysit him for a while were a lot better.