Mrs, Parnell and I have to help Alvin out with a serious problem. I’ll pick up my pass later.”
“Don’t bother.”
“Try not to be annoying, P. J.”
“Hey, come on.”
“Look, I have a situation unfolding which is giving me grief. I am not, repeat not, in a good mood. So don’t pressure me. I am going to goddam Bluesfest. Don’t try to talk me into anything else. I have to get off the phone and make airline reservations pronto.”
“Pronto? That’s my point, Tiger. I got two Clubhouse passes to the Bluesfest.”
“What?”
“Clubhouse passes. Two of the suckers.”
“You’re kidding. Since this morning?”
“Yeah. I won a draw at the paper.”
“That’s fabulous.”
“Hate to tell you, but it’s actually bad news. Because The Ottawa Citizen is a sponsor, and as an employee, I was not eligible to win.”
What was going on here? “That’s miserable.”
“Actually, it isn’t. I knew I wasn’t eligible, so I put your name on the entry form. Then I put my own telephone number.”
Irritation cancelled. If I remembered the Bluesfest program booklet, Clubhouse passes cost more than two hundred smackers a pop and came with a lot of goodies. I’d planned for the sixty-five dollar full festival pass myself. Now I’d have to dip into my savings to cover the shortfall of Justice for Victims, not to mention springing for Alvin’s plane ticket, so saving sixty-five dollars was welcome. “Definitely good news.”
“Sure is.”
“Why don’t you drop by the office and slip the passes under the door? I’ll decide who to take.” P. J. was born to be teased.
“What do you mean, you’ll decide who to take? I thought we’d go together. That was the whole idea. Didn’t you say going to the Bluesfest was a sign you were getting a life?”
“Did I? You told me you weren’t eligible. You’re a highly paid reporter, and now with these restaurant review gigs and this big honking political assignment, you’ll be floating in cash. You can buy yourself a pass. I’ll take someone who can’t afford it.”
“Are you crazy? Clubhouse passes are sold out.” P. J.’s voice shot up an octave.
“But as you say, the passes are in my name.”
“Wait a minute. You didn’t buy the tickets.”
“You didn’t buy them either. Anyway, what are you worried about? You can always cover it for The Citizen.”
“I wish. I can’t cover that and Nicholas Southern’s campaign too.”
“You keep whining about that. Seems to me a high profile assignment is money in the bank, even if you do have to listen to all that right wing bullshit.”
“Yeah well, the paper can hardly give me Bluesfest too.”
“That is not really bad news, P. J. Mr. Southern’s a big story. You’d better concentrate. Let me know if anything about the New Right starts to make sense to you, and I’ll do my best to get you to a deprogrammer. I can fill you in on the concerts afterwards. It’s not like you know anything about the blues anyway.”
“Hang on a minute. The good news is the story is going well. Southern never shuts up, but he has a life. He’s off the road this weekend. I won’t have any trouble getting to Bluesfest.” I noted the panic in his voice. If P. J. didn’t want to be tormented, maybe he shouldn’t have sent me a prickly cactus last year when I was laid up in hospital.
“Come on, Tiger, you’ve been yakking about how much you wanted to hear Blue Rodeo. I thought you’d be happy to spend the time with me,” he added.
Time to quit horsing around.
“Bad news then, P. J. You’ll have to put up with me for the whole festival. But I have to take care of something important first.”
I thought I heard a whoosh of relief.
• • •
“I’ve been thinking about it, Mrs. P. Alvin’s family are profoundly irritating, but they seem to truly care about him, even if it’s on someone else’s phone tab.”
“Perhaps.”
“I can’t believe they caused him any trauma.”
“We must consider it, even if it is unpalatable.”
“More unlikely than unpalatable. But why don’t I try to get a bit more dope on what’s going on before I book his flight?”
I made the call from Mrs. Parnell’s bedroom, out of Alvin’s earshot. My source was in.
“Camilla,” Donald Donnie MacDonald said. “Twice in one day?”
“Sorry to bother you. I need to know a bit more about what happened to Jimmy Ferguson, for Alvin’s sake. He’s in a weird anxiety state. And you seemed to be the logical person to ask.” I didn’t mention Donald Donnie lived for gossip.
“Indeed, ask away, girl.”
“Fill me in on the situation, right from the beginning.”
“I’m not surprised Allie’s in a state. The family’s in crisis. Jimmy’s disappeared off the streets of Sydney on Canada Day in broad daylight. Poof! There he was, gone. Just like that.”
“You mentioned Jimmy wasn’t quite all right. What’s the story?”
“Indeed, it was a tragedy.”
“I’m sure. But what was the tragedy?”
“Must have happened about sixteen years ago. Springtime it was. Eighty-four. What, Mum? Oh right, eighty-five.”
“What exactly happened?” I parked myself on Mrs. Parnell’s king-sized bed. No point in being uncomfortable. I knew Donald Donnie, and this was going to take a while.
“Jimmy nearly drowned. In our lovely little park right across the street. Loretta and I can practically see it from the front veranda.”
“Maybe that’s why Alvin’s so agitated. Did Alvin find him?”
“No. Allie and Jimmy were always together. Allie ran for help, and Loretta and I raced down.”
“So was Jimmy all right?”
“Indeed he was not, girl. He never got over the near-drowning. He was left brain-damaged. He has the mind of a ten-year-old child now, when he’s at his best. That’s why they’re so worried.”
Mrs.
