“Global warming is hardly something to be thankful for, Gabbi.”
“Not in general, no, of course not, Effie. I meant in this instance. Ten years ago, at this time of year, we’d have been freezing out here, and the mosquitoes would’ve been long gone. Speaking of which, if we’re having dessert out here, does anyone need more bug spray?” She held up an aerosol can.
No one accepted Gabrielle’s offer. With Opal accompanying her to help with the dessert, she left for the house.
“Aerosol cans!” Effie exclaimed quietly. “Canada banned those damned things a long time ago. I don’t know what’s wrong with this country. It’s as if everyone here is hell-bent on destroying what’s left of the ozone layer.”
“It depends on what’s in the cans,” Malcolm Fairley told her. “Not all of them—”
“Aerosol industry propaganda!” Effie declared. “From you, of all people, Malcolm! You won’t buy those things any more than I will. Gabrielle knows better, too. I don’t know what she was thinking.”
“She didn’t buy those cans,” said someone whose name I’ve forgotten. “She told me. Norman Axelrod gave them to her.”
“What a hostile thing for him to do!” Effie spat. “Typical! He couldn’t just be irresponsible. Oh, no! He always had to flaunt his lack of concern. Like all his bragging about how when he died, his son was going to sell his land to the highest bidder and that the highest bidder was damned well not going to be Gabbi or the Nature Conservancy or anyone else who might preserve it.”
Although I couldn’t see people’s expressions clearly in the darkness, the light from the fire and the torches revealed a subtle turning of heads toward Wally Swan, the developer, who was adding yet more driftwood to the coals. “Effie, let’s drop it,” he said peacefully. “That’s one issue that doesn’t need more wood added to its fire.”
“Did Norman ever offer to sell you and Opal his land?” Effie demanded bluntly.
“No, he did not,” Wally replied.
“Did he promise you his son was going to?”
“No.”
But Effie persisted.
“Where were you and Opal this afternoon? Just as a matter of curiosity, I’d like to hear where you were when Norman Axelrod fell on the Ladder Trail. Did you happen to be working on the Homans Path? Both of you? It’s no great distance from there to the Ladder Trail, is it? It’s no great distance at all.”
Chapter Eleven
WE NEED TO GET YOU SOMETHING better to drive than this.” Anita Fairley is referring to Steve Delaney’s van or, more precisely, to its interior, which has an ineradicable odor of dogs. Steve knows all too well how ineradicable it is. Three boxfuls of baking soda sprinkled over the seats and carpeting, left overnight, and then sucked into the bowels of a wet-dry shop vac had no perceptible effect. He has repeatedly saturated the van from ceiling to floor with spray-on stench-control liquids ranging from commercial products to improbable home-remedy concoctions containing everything from white vinegar to feminine-hygiene powder. For a week after the vinegar treatment, the van smelled like a pickle factory. The unspeakable powder left it smelling like a brothel.
“Something that doesn’t smell like dogs,” Anita adds unnecessarily. She occupies the passenger seat, which she has tilted back until she is reclining rather than sitting. Anita reclines as beautifully as she does everything else. She is more than photogenic; you can’t even take a bad glance at her. Holly, Steve reflects, always kept the seat in a fully upright position, as if perpetually prepared for takeoff or landing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Anita’s manicured right hand brush in evident annoyance at the nylon fabric of what she has informed him are called trekking pants. Their color, she says, is known as cigar. Anita has unknowingly enriched Steve’s vocabulary by introducing him to new uses of old words— tobacco, too, proves
“Not in general, no, of course not, Effie. I meant in this instance. Ten years ago, at this time of year, we’d have been freezing out here, and the mosquitoes would’ve been long gone. Speaking of which, if we’re having dessert out here, does anyone need more bug spray?” She held up an aerosol can.
No one accepted Gabrielle’s offer. With Opal accompanying her to help with the dessert, she left for the house.
“Aerosol cans!” Effie exclaimed quietly. “Canada banned those damned things a long time ago. I don’t know what’s wrong with this country. It’s as if everyone here is hell-bent on destroying what’s left of the ozone layer.”
“It depends on what’s in the cans,” Malcolm Fairley told her. “Not all of them—”
“Aerosol industry propaganda!” Effie declared. “From you, of all people, Malcolm! You won’t buy those things any more than I will. Gabrielle knows better, too. I don’t know what she was thinking.”
“She didn’t buy those cans,” said someone whose name I’ve forgotten. “She told me. Norman Axelrod gave them to her.”
“What a hostile thing for him to do!” Effie spat. “Typical! He couldn’t just be irresponsible. Oh, no! He always had to flaunt his lack of concern. Like all his bragging about how when he died, his son was going to sell his land to the highest bidder and that the highest bidder was damned well not going to be Gabbi or the Nature Conservancy or anyone else who might preserve it.”
Although I couldn’t see people’s expressions clearly in the darkness, the light from the fire and the torches revealed a subtle turning of heads toward Wally Swan, the developer, who was adding yet more driftwood to the coals. “Effie, let’s drop it,” he said peacefully. “That’s one issue that doesn’t need more wood added to its fire.”
“Did Norman ever offer to sell you and Opal his land?” Effie demanded bluntly.
“No, he did not,” Wally replied.
“Did he promise you his son was going to?”
“No.”
But Effie persisted.
“Where were you and Opal this afternoon? Just as a matter of curiosity, I’d like to hear where you were when Norman Axelrod fell on the Ladder Trail. Did you happen to be working on the Homans Path? Both of you? It’s no great distance from there to the Ladder Trail, is it? It’s no great distance at all.”
Chapter Eleven
WE NEED TO GET YOU SOMETHING better to drive than this.” Anita Fairley is referring to Steve Delaney’s van or, more precisely, to its interior, which has an ineradicable odor of dogs. Steve knows all too well how ineradicable it is. Three boxfuls of baking soda sprinkled over the seats and carpeting, left overnight, and then sucked into the bowels of a wet-dry shop vac had no perceptible effect. He has repeatedly saturated the van from ceiling to floor with spray-on stench-control liquids ranging from commercial products to improbable home-remedy concoctions containing everything from white vinegar to feminine-hygiene powder. For a week after the vinegar treatment, the van smelled like a pickle factory. The unspeakable powder left it smelling like a brothel.
“Something that doesn’t smell like dogs,” Anita adds unnecessarily. She occupies the passenger seat, which she has tilted back until she is reclining rather than sitting. Anita reclines as beautifully as she does everything else. She is more than photogenic; you can’t even take a bad glance at her. Holly, Steve reflects, always kept the seat in a fully upright position, as if perpetually prepared for takeoff or landing. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Anita’s manicured right hand brush in evident annoyance at the nylon fabric of what she has informed him are called trekking pants. Their color, she says, is known as cigar. Anita has unknowingly enriched Steve’s vocabulary by introducing him to new uses of old words— tobacco, too, proves
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