When the Flood Falls. J.E. Barnard

to compile her list. After repeated suggestions that Camille consult the printed catalogue for the opening show, which was readily available down at the museum, Dee finally disconnected.

      “Damned grand-standing tramp,” she said.

      “You really don’t like her.”

      “Usually I can take or leave her, preferably the latter, except that she’s on the museum board, too, and therefore impossible to completely avoid. Today she’s really pissed that Jan interrupted her moment of glory at the press conference.” Dee guzzled her cooling tea. “Also, she really is a tramp, not that it’s a crime, but it’s really low class of her. She drapes herself all over her husband’s protege in public. Mick’s a nice old guy, mentored this kid practically since his first pair of skates, and now that the little jerk is a hotshot NHL player, he’s got Mick’s wife nibbling his ear in front of Mick’s friends and neighbours. It’s impossible to avoid knowing she’s got her teeth into more than that. Mick deserves better. Sorry, another call about the gala.”

      So Blondie this morning was the woman everyone loved to hate around here. Hot gossip. Lacey shuddered. She’d heard plenty of cop-shop gossip in her time, but really tried to avoid the junior high kind of nastiness. She tuned out the next phone call and watched the last vestiges of sunset trail away from the sky. Three days ahead of the event, the museum’s opening gala schedule was already too familiar. Friday daytime was for media tours and interviews. The evening portion would involve select local dignitaries, donors, and celebrity guests swilling pricey booze and watching some kind of upscale variety show. Lacey might not be employed for long after Friday if Wayne didn’t thaw toward her. He could easily replace her with someone more electronically apt, who didn’t need to be coached through the use of a power screwdriver.

      Ten minutes later, Dee popped out her earpiece and yawned hugely. “That’s enough for tonight. Anyone else can talk to my voice mail. I’m so glad you’re here, Lacey. I’ll sleep like a log now that you’ve got my back. But we’ve been talking about me and my troubles ever since you got here. What on earth is going on with you? Leaving Dan and the RCMP both in the last six months? This is not the old cautious McCrae.”

      Lacey drained her mug, buying time. How could she summarize all the events of the winter? One too many puke-inducing sexual abuses of children. Disgusting domestic violence calls. Her growing disillusionment with the Force and the eternal argument with Dan over starting a family she didn’t want. The whole mess with young Dominic and old Gracie that finally smashed her commitment to the job. And then the final fight with Dan, and the terrifying week that followed. It was too much to condense, but she had to say something.

      “The Twitter version: I’m halfway divorced, halfway between homes, and in a temporary job. Also broke while I wait for Dan to sell our house and for my RCMP pension payout to arrive. Is that one hundred and forty characters?”

      “Hell if I know,” said Dee. “I’ve never picked up a Twitter habit. Ninety-nine percent of my day is confidential, anyway. Nothing to tweet about. But you’re living at Tom’s? And he got you the job with Wayne? Is he still married or are you two …?”

      “We are not. I like his wife. And his kids. I’ve been sleeping on their rec room couch for the past few weeks, working for his friend just over one. When the museum security is finished, I might be reduced to mall security guard. Who knows what I’ll be able to afford for a home on those wages. Calgary is almost as expensive as Vancouver.”

      Dee squeezed her hand across the coffee table. “Aren’t we a pair? All that golden promise from our university grad party and poof! Where are we now?”

      “We,” said Lacey, “are in one hell of a nice house, thanks to your rising real estate stardom.”

      “Stay with me as long as you like. It’s bound to be safer than staying at Tom’s. Sooner or later, you know …”

      Lacey did indeed know. Once you’ve had a man’s body and found it good, he never seems quite as out of bounds as before, even if he is married now. Between shift work and the fights with Dan, she’d gone months without sex. It didn’t need saying out loud, but one extra beer when she and Tom were both tired to death, and they could skid right off that narrow rail again, rationalizing it as they had before: just stress relief.

      “Just as well you’re here now,” Dee went on. “You can come to the gala as my date.” Her phone buzzed, then, and after a glance at the number, she added, “Aw, shit, I have to take this one last call. Back in a sec.” She left the room.

      Lacey took her mug back to the kitchen and stared out into the late twilight at the dog pen. Were the dogs staring back at her, waiting for her to come within biting range? She stepped into the dining room, where the French doors framed the rear terrace and the wooded hill. Yup, all these open drapes — Dee was much calmer tonight. Either the pills were kicking in, or she’d been able to get a grip simply by knowing she wasn’t alone. In the living room, the vast windows displayed the Rocky Mountains, coldly blue against the amber streaks of sunset, their jagged tops still partly shrouded in snow. She stood there admiring the million-dollar view, wondering whether going outside would set off the dogs, until Dee came in from her office beyond the wide log staircase. She looked even more exhausted than before.

      “Poor Rob. One of these days Camille Hardy will get taken down to size.” She dropped into an oversized armchair. “And I hope I’m there to see it.”

      “You used to be the one doing the sizing. Getting mellow in your old age?”

      “Not at all. But steering this museum through the construction phase requires a certain amount of diplomatic tongue biting, more so since Camille is tight with Jake, who’s the single biggest donor. She was tighter still with his ex-wife, the ex-president. Even so, I can’t let her drive Rob insane. His competence is the only thing standing between the museum and utter disaster. Look, I’ve got to get to bed. You have everything you need? Watch TV if you want; it won’t bother me. But please close all the curtains before you come up.”

      Dee may have slept well, but Lacey did not. She checked all the door and window locks, leaned out of windows to make sure the motion-sensor lights were still plugged in, drew all the drapes, and at last went upstairs to bed. Her bedroom curtains she left open, and the window, too, so she’d hear anyone on the porch. Then she lay staring at the glossy log ceiling, as much as it could be seen in the absence of streetlights. She hadn’t counted on every outside noise being quite so loud. Creepy rustlings and other unfamiliar wilderness sounds mocked her through the half-open window. Would footfalls stand out above all that background noise? No comforting hum of traffic here, no sirens or horns blaring, none of the nighttime concerto of Surrey or Calgary. No gunshots, either, which was nice. Peaceful country living.

      She was drifting off at last when something thumped against the porch beneath her window. She leaped out of bed and leaned out, but all was dark. What had happened to the motion lights? She ran downstairs in the dark, silently to avoid waking Dee. She switched on the porch lights at the front door and dashed outside … in time to see the rump ends of two small deer dis­appearing into the underbrush.

      In the morning she met Dee by the coffee pot. Power Women Weekly would surely approve of Dee’s intimidating perfection, from the spotless shapely pinstripe skirt and jacket to the sleek chignon. If that Camille woman had ever met this Dee in a boardroom, she would think twice about making demands. Dee was filling a steel travel mug and clearly ready to click out the door on her business-class heels.

      “You’re up early,” she said. “How’d you sleep?” Lacey confessed to rousting the two small deer. Dee grinned. “Hazard of the neighbourhood.”

      “You’re in the city all day today?”

      “In and out. I’ll be back to the museum, but first there’s a vital meeting for my big East Village development. I’ll likely be home for supper, but if you’re hungry first, help yourself to anything in the fridge or freezer. Or there are a couple of decent restaurants down the hill.” Dee waved her mug in the general direction of the hamlet. “Not as many as before the last flood. Quite a few businesses never re-opened.”