Quintin Jardine
Poisoned Cherries
Chapter 1
Sometimes I think that if I was ever depressed enough to jump out of a window, I’d fall upwards.
We made a show of making our marriage work, my second wife Primavera and I, once I rejoined her in the States after our troubles in Spain. The deal was that I tried to put her past behind me, and she tried to do the same with mine. . the parts of my past that she knew about, that is. I sold my flat in Glasgow, the one that had been Jan’s and mine, to a willing buyer at a quick-sale price. Prim never even asked who it was; that’s how keen she was to cut herself adrift from Scotland. We thought about getting shot of the Spanish villa at the same time, but put that on hold for a while and rented it out instead, for six months, to a Scots actor I had met on my first movie. That was just about as long as our reconciliation lasted too; not much more than half a year.
I suppose it was okay at first; after all, we were living a dream. After cruising my way through my thirties, fate and a trusting in-law had thrown me into an acting career. My confidence. . never in short supply at the worst of times. . had been boosted by some half-decent reviews for my performance in my debut film, and by some one-on-one coaching from an old theatre pro who taught me plenty about phrasing, timing, relaxation, and script retention. . the stuff you can either learn or you can’t. . so I moved positively into my second role in a Miles Grayson production.
This one was supposed to be set in Chicago, but most of it was shot in Toronto, for a very good reason. Miles, who was, is and always will be married to Prim’s actress sister, Dawn Phillips, as well as being the world’s top box office attraction, is also a very sharp man around a pound note, dollar bill, yen, euro, or whatever currency happens to be appropriate at the time. When it comes to dollars, he knows that the Canadian version buys a hell of a lot more than its long green neighbour, hence his choice of location.
The downside of this selection was that Miles is not alone in knowing that. In fact, Toronto’s new nickname is ‘the Hollywood of the North’, and on any given week in the year, there are so many American film crews roaming its streets that bumping into each other could be a real problem. Fortunately, thanks to our director’s clout with the mayor, who was on a one-man crusade to round up as much big-name support as possible for his Olympic bid, that didn’t happen to us.
The other problem with Toronto is its mooses, or mice, or meece. . I never did find out what the plural is; let’s just call them a herd, because there are more than enough of the things to qualify. The moose is the civic mascot. . I asked many people why this is, but nobody could tell me. . and they have really gone overboard on it. Life-size replicas of the gormless animals are everywhere, on just about every street corner, and outside every public building; replicas, save for one thing. Very few of them have horns; those have become a collectable item in the city by the lake.
Miles’s movie had a long production schedule, since he was running a documentary project simultaneously, for Australian television. It didn’t overrun, but I was committed to Canada on and off for more than six months. Whenever I could, on weekends and off-weeks, I went back, as was expected of one half of a happy couple, to Prim in Los Angeles, and to the beach-front house we were renting. When I was in Toronto, camping out in the spacious and elegant Royal York Hotel, I played the faithful husband to perfection. Almost. I won’t say I never looked at another woman, but I certainly didn’t touch. In fact, I spent most of my spare time in the gym, or watching baseball in the Skydome.
More fool me.
In spite of our director star’s split commitment, we wrapped the movie two weeks ahead of schedule. The champagne corks were popped on set, I said goodbye to the lady publisher who had offered me serious bucks for US distribution rights to my ghosted autobiography. . yes, that’s how bizarre my life had become. . and headed home to LA, to the warm and welcoming arms of my wife and full-time dedicated matrimony.
As the Beatles sang, I should have known better.
It was a classic scene; you know it from a thousand movies and telly soaps. I actually did shout ‘Honey, I’m home!’ as I closed the door behind me. There was no sign of Prim in the big living room, and so I walked out onto the deck, which looked south over the beach and the Pacific.
There had been a new compact Jaguar in the driveway, but I’d simply assumed that my wife had been shopping again. So I frowned when I saw who was waiting for me; I knew right then that something was wrong. Still, I had an image to protect.
‘Shit,’ I murmured. ‘What a memory I’ve got. I’m in the wrong house.’
I cannot imagine anyone less fitted for the breaking of bad news than my sister-in-law Dawn. She’s a lovely Scots girl in every sense, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She’s the ultimate collector of waifs and strays, a trait that led her into some odd relationships before she met Miles. She cannot watch a charity ad on television without writing a cheque, or phoning in with a credit card number. She sponsors, personally, five hundred African children, and her own kid is well on the way to being spoiled rotten.
But she is flakier than a summer’s worth of 99 ice cream cones. Dawn will panic at the drop of a hat. The first time the baby burped up some feed she wanted to call a paediatrician.
My nephew, Bruce. . well, he’s half Aussie, half Scots so what did you expect them to call him?. . was in her arms as she turned to face me. As a matter of fact, he was plugged into the mains, as my old Dad would say. Dawn is an enthusiastic breastfeeder. . and so, I realised as I watched him tuck in, is the boy Bruce.
She opened her mouth to speak but, inevitably, her pretty face wrinkled up and her chin started to tremble. Incongruous is too gentle a word to describe the way she looked, with her child sucking on her right nipple and tears streaming down her cheeks. Bruce paused and looked up as the first big drop landed on his forehead. LA babies aren’t used to rain; it always gets their attention.
‘It’s P. . P. . Prim, Oz,’ she stammered. ‘She’s. .’ And then she cracked up again. She didn’t have to say any more, though. I’m no mind reader, but she’d told me the whole story in that one brief blubber. Besides, I knew my wife well enough by that time, just as she knew me.
My first thought was one of regret. . not about Prim, but about what I’d passed up in Toronto with that publishing lady.
‘Who is it?’ I asked her, taking Bruce from her as she tucked herself back in, and struggled to get herself back under control.
‘She’s not dead,’ I went on, not giving her a chance to answer, ‘or the cops would probably be here, and she’s come to like this lifestyle. So if she’s gone there’s a reason. What’s his name?’
It was Dawn’s turn to frown. Until then she’d only known the laughing-boy side of Oz Blackstone, everyone’s favourite clown. She’d never seen the guy who was looking at her then. I think she expected me to cry too; she certainly expected me to care. Either way, I must have been a big disappointment to her.
‘Nicky Johnson,’ she whispered.
I actually smiled, as I held Bruce up to my shoulder and rubbed gently between his shoulder blades. . I’m a well experienced uncle. Dawn’s frown, and no doubt her disappointment, deepened. ‘Ah, him. Nicky, the flying actor.’ Nicky Johnson, the guy who’d given Prim a lift from California to Barcelona in his private jet, a few months before. He’d probably had it on autopilot for a good chunk of the way.
‘Where have they gone?’
‘Mexico. Puerto Vallarta, I think. Oz, you’re not going to do anything reckless are you?’