A Killing Frost. Margaret Haffner
out with Barry once or twice but that had been before he’d come to Atawan. Tracy had told Ed she was afraid of Barry’s temper and now he could see why. He felt like a jelly fish confronted by a shark.
Barry ignored Ed’s interjection. ‘– then when she got tired of you, you killed her.’
The fist hovered inches from Ed’s nose. He slid along the counter. ‘Forget the coffee.’ Only pride kept his exit from looking like a complete rout.
Two of her errands completed, Catherine walked along the street towards the record store. The morning was already hot and humid and she clung to the narrow band of shade near the buildings. In her mind she replayed a snatch of her conversation at the bank. Everything had gone smoothly. The young woman at the ‘new accounts’ desk had been smiling warmly as she took down the details. ‘Address?’ she had asked.
‘317 Elm Street,’ Catherine replied.
The woman’s smile froze. ‘Is that the Tomachuk house?’
‘Yes.’ By now, Catherine knew the answer to this question. ‘Why?’
‘No reason,’ the teller said hastily. ‘It has been vacant quite a while …’ She rustled the papers in front of her. ‘Telephone number?’
What was wrong with ‘The Tomachuk house’, Catherine wondered. Her musing lasted until she arrived at the door of the long narrow music shop. A bell tinkled as she opened the door and ducked into the cool gloom. After the brilliant sunshine outside, she blinked a few times until her eyes grew accustomed to the lower light. A rustling to her left attracted her attention and she saw a smiling face pop up from behind the low counter. ‘May I help you?’
‘Well … I thought I’d just look around first.’
‘Take your time.’ Still looking very short behind the counter, he gestured at the rows and rows of tapes and compact discs. ‘Alphabetical by composer.’
Catherine smiled her thanks and turned to the racks. It didn’t take her long to discover that Albert’s Arpeggio carried only classical music. Heaven, she thought, and wandered along the aisles scanning the extensive collection. He even stocked a complete set of Dmitri Shostakovich symphonies and she finally chose the number eleven and took it to the desk.
The smiling elf with the thick glasses tapped the tape with his forefinger. ‘Good choice. Did you know Carl Sagan chose this music to represent the immensity and wonder of space in his television series Cosmos?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ As he manoeuvred his wheelchair to the cash register, Catherine understood why he looked so short.
‘It was a great series,’ he continued. ‘You should watch it when it comes on again.’ He rang up the sale and she handed over the money. ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ he said as he shoved the cash drawer shut. ‘I’m Albert Terron. I own this little oasis of culture in the desert of philistines.’
She shook his proffered hand. ‘Catherine Edison.’
He cocked his head to one side. ‘Just passing through?’
‘I’m going to be at Agromics for a few months.’
‘Great. You’ll like it here.’ He laughed. ‘And I really didn’t mean what I said about the philistines. It’s just that not too many of the good folks of Atawan appreciate real music. They want Garth Brooks and Tammy Wynette. And the kids want Def Leppard or 2 Live Crew. Or Megadeath.’ He shook his head and sighed.
Catherine smiled in sympathy. ‘I must say I was surprised to find such a wonderful store here.’
Albert laughed again, the crow’s-feet at the edges of his blue eyes deepening. ‘I get mostly mail-order business. I actually have quite an extensive clientele.’
Catherine picked up her parcel. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised.
‘Drop in any time,’ Albert replied. ‘I love to chat about music. Or spread gossip.’ His laughter followed her out of the store.
The heat pressed down on her and sweat dampened her armpits as she made her way to Royce’s Garage. The blond man had disappeared and the two service bays, doors open wide, stood empty except for the expected paraphernalia. She approached the customer entrance and tried the door. It was unlocked so she poked her head in. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’
The blond man jumped up from behind the counter accompanied by a clatter of falling pens and pencils. Catherine could have sworn it was fear she saw in his blue eyes for the split second before he gained control and began stuffing the pens into the pocket of his shirt. Embroidered on the pocket was the name Ed Royce. The proprietor, she wondered?
‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ The man cleared his throat and brushed his hand over his hair. ‘What can I do for you?’
Catherine shifted from one foot to the other. ‘My car’s been acting up lately. I wanted to make an appointment for it …’ Her voice trailed off as she recalled the empty service bays.
Ed laughed without humour and flipped through his blank appointment book. ‘Let’s see when I can fit you in …’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Whenever is most convenient for you. Now, if you’d like.’
‘I need the car this afternoon. Maybe I should wait till tomorrow.’
Ed scratched his head. ‘Tell you what. Let me have a look. If it’s something simple I’ll fix it now but if it’s going to be a long job you can bring the car back in the morning.’ He came around the end of the counter. ‘Where is it at the moment?’
‘Just down the block. I’ll get it.’ She hurried out of the stuffy office into the sauna outside.
Ed stood in the doorway where the harsh sunlight accentuated the new lines in his narrow face. His first customer since he’d reopened and she wasn’t a local. Figured. When would his old customers come back? Would they come back?
While the mechanic had his hands buried in the bowels of her old car, Catherine found Morgan in the only dress shop in town and took her to wait in the coffee shop. Its décor made the teenager smirk but, while Catherine agreed with her, she hushed her daughter. ‘We can’t go ridiculing everything we see. Atawan isn’t Kingsport, but then Kingsport must seem pretty primitive to people from Toronto or Montreal. Everything is relative, Morgan.’
‘Relatively dismal.’ The girl stirred her ice cubes with a straw while her mother toyed with a coffee spoon. ‘How long is the car going to take?’
Catherine shrugged. ‘An hour, maybe. Could be a little more. I told him I needed it by one o’clock.’ She brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. ‘You can walk home if you want …’ She looked inquiringly at her daughter.
‘I’m going to stay here where it’s air conditioned.’ Morgan reached for the canvas bag at her feet. ‘We can read the magazines I bought.’
Although she held her magazine in front of her, Catherine couldn’t concentrate on it. Her mind flitted from subject to subject and too many of them were unpleasant. To distract herself she studied her surroundings and mentally cringed at the maritime ‘look’. She turned back to the magazine. In a few minutes she’d order lunch.
As she looked up again, two men entering the restaurant caught her attention. They chose a table near by and she recognized the older, heavily built one as Ernie Grant, the real estate agent who’d arranged her house rental. He either didn’t see her or didn’t recognize her as he went by and then sat down with his back to her. Catherine didn’t advertise her presence. It had been a long time since she had felt sociable.
From where she sat she had a good view of the real estate agent’s companion, a tall, slim man in his late thirties. His thick thatch of wavy red hair curled over his high forehead and stuck out like the prow of a ship. It contrasted sharply with Ernie Grant’s bald pate. But as she