A Crossworder's Gift Read online

  “Festival of Lights?” Rosco asked.

  “Festival Montréal en Lumiere … It’s quite a show, or shows, I should say. There are venues all over the city, though the principal attractions are at the Place des Arts—that’s where our performing arts center is located.”

  Helene Armée led the way upstairs. The steps seemed to grumble with each footfall. “Une vieille maison,” she explained in French. “An old house. It was unoccupied for many years. I think it resents the return of human habitation.” She made a face of mock indignation. “I do daily battle with the building.”

  “You bought the property in order to turn it into a B and B?” Rosco queried. He was a person keen on asking questions—a useful attribute for an ex-cop turned private investigator, or a curse, depending on how one might view it.

  “No,” Helene replied with some asperity. “Wordsworth House originally belonged to my great-great-grandfather. It was my grandfather who supplied the name.”

  “Then your ancestors were English?” Belle asked as they climbed a second set of stairs.

  “Not that branch of the family, no.”

  In the softly lit corridor, Belle smiled. “Your grandfather must have been a lover of poetry. William Wordsworth was a romantic—”

  “The name is a play on words. The surname ‘Verbeux’ would be translated as verbose in English. As to his fondness of poésie—poems, I’m afraid I have no answer.” With that, Helene opened a guest room door. “Here you are. Please do not hesitate to ask if there is anything you need … And now I will leave you. A tout à l’heure.” The door shut decisively behind her.

  “WHAT do you think that was all about?” Belle turned to face Rosco, her bag in her hand, her coat and hat still on.

  Rosco took the suitcase from her, but she didn’t seem to notice. “You mean the fact that our hostess is busy and didn’t choose to stay and gab about her forebear’s taste in reading material?”

  “No, Rosco, the fact that she obviously doesn’t like her granddad—”

  “Whoa … whoa … Hold on there, ‘Miss Jump-to-Outrageous-Conclusions.’ I didn’t hear anything about liking or disliking.” Rosco pulled off his coat and walked toward the armoire. “I guess you haven’t warmed up yet, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve still got your hat and coat on.”

  Belle sighed with the impatient sound of someone who has weightier issues at hand, then yanked off her outer garments, creating a field of static electricity that caused her fine, blond hair to rise straight up in the air. “Helene’s tone positively reverberated with anger.”

  “Huh. I thought the way she said ‘A tout à l’heure’ was kinda cute. Belle, I’ll bet our hostess simply has a lot on her plate … As she indicated, this is a new establishment …” Rosco looked at his wife, unmoving in the middle of the room. Except for the strands of hair that continued pointing ceilingward, her entire being was obviously focused on a single thought. He shook his head and smiled.

  “I take it your determined brain has already begun inventing family tragedies our host is unwilling to address … grandfather disappearing up in the Alaskan oilfields or down the darkest Amazon … alligators, headhunters—”

  “Are there headhunters in the Amazon basin? I didn’t think of that!” Belle’s eyes were thoughtful.

  “I take it that means you’re buying the ‘lost in the jungle’ scenario? As opposed to the ‘ravenous polar bears in the Arctic’ possibility.” Rosco laughed, and began unpacking. “Which side of the bed do you want?”

  “Rosco! Aren’t you even curious?”

  “My middle name.”

  “Well?”

  “I didn’t come up here with my all-time favorite woman to start creating mysteries where none exist.”

  Belle, in true form, wasn’t listening; instead, she was walking toward the window to gaze at the street below. “But you could tell Helene was upset, couldn’t you? Old gramps was not a person she wanted to discuss.”

  “I don’t want to discuss him, either—”

  “Must have been another woman in his life—”

  “Belle!”

  But Belle Graham, on a roll, wasn’t easily dissuaded. “Although, that’s strange in itself … Two generations removed, and the anger and hurt remain palpable … You would think … hmmm …”

  “What do you see out there?”

  Belle turned back to Rosco. “What do—?”

  “You see through the window? I.e.: How’s the view?”

  “The view?”

  Rosco sighed. The sound was indulgent. “The view for our romantic weekend.”

  “Oh!” Belle spun around. “Very nice … Antique buildings with peaked slate roofs, icicles, smoke from chimneys … lots and lots of snow … the river completely frozen—at least the section we can see.”

  Rosco moved close to her and wrapped her in his arms. “A nice afternoon to stay indoors—”

  Belle leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. “I can’t help but wonder who he was.”

  “Who?”

  “Helene’s grandfather. Mr. Verbose.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’ve got a one-track mind?”

  “It takes one to know one—watch where you put those mitts of yours, buddy, they’re like ice.”

  “MAXIME Verbeux died when Helene and I were little. We never met him, however.” It was Helene’s first cousin, Pamela Gravers, who answered Belle’s question as the three sat sipping hot cocoa near the fireplace in Wordsworth House’s sitting room. Where Helene was short and precise, a devotee to detail, Pamela was lanky and tall, given to large and often incomplete gestures, and quirky, homemade garb. She was a conceptual artist based in Toronto; her visit to her cousin’s B and B coincided with the Festival Montréal en Lumiere, where she was displaying her newest work: Letters From Our Past—a celebration of the city’s bilingual heritage.

  As she spoke, Pamela munched distractedly on a super-chunk chocolate cookie, crumbs spilling down a handknit citron yellow pullover decorated with vivid geometrical designs in turquoise and flamingo pink. “Oops,” she said, spotting the crumbs. She brushed them to the floor, then immediately regretted the action. “I keep forgetting I’m not at home. Helene’s going to have my hide. She’s a ferocious neatnik.” A salt-stained, booted toe scuffed at the crumbs, brushing them under the chair’s skirt, then she glanced at Belle and Rosco in guilty appeal. “Don’t tell …”

  “How does your installation work?” Rosco asked in a change of subject. “Letters From Our Past?”

  “Oh! But you have to go see it!” Pamela’s hand made a wide arc in the air, nearly decapitating a table lamp. The shade rocked ominously; the base teetered. Rosco reached out steadying fingers while Pamela grimaced:

  “I’m going to break something, for sure. I just know it! My studio in Toronto is designed for work—not show.” She grabbed another cookie, and her sweater’s voluminous sleeve snagged against the plate. This time it was Belle who saved the day, retrieving sweets and china before they crashed to the floor.

  Pamela produced a self-deprecating sigh, leaned forward, and continued with an impassioned and excited: “There are some wonderful installations this year … a modified wind tunnel with voices whose speech is tantalizingly unintelligible and enigmatic … a mirror-like facade that projects your image—vastly distorted—across the snow as if you’d turned into a weird extraterrestrial shadow—”

  “And they’re all outside?” Belle began.

  “Of course! It’s a matter of space, of playing with and utilizing space, of light and darkness; of experimentation—”

  “But it’s cold,” Belle murmured.

  Pamela looked at her quizzically.

  “We’ve been discussing the ‘winter in Canada’ weather phenomenon,” Rosco chortled.

  “‘Phenomenon’?” was Pamela’s perplexed response.

  “The fact that it’s colder up here than down near Boston, or Newcastle, which i
s where we live.”

  Pamela stared at Rosco and then at Belle. A frown of confusion crossed her brow; and Rosco realized how similar these two women were in their complete concentration on a single topic. “Unusual atmospheric conditions would be balmy breezes coming off the Saint Lawrence … but then the ice-skaters down at the pavilion, the Pavillon, would sink.”

  Belle shivered; Pamela Gravers laughed, then reached for another chocolate-chunk cookie. “If you’re worried about being chilly, you won’t be. There are bonfires to stand near, food stalls either within tents or under the stars, en plein air, as they say … and jugglers, mimes, stilt walkers … marshmallows to roast—”

  “Marshmallows?” Belle said, perking up.

  “You think summer picnics in the States can lay exclusive claim to marshmallows? Anyway, I’d really like you to see my installation … As a person whose career involves letters—”

  “You haven’t created a crossword puzzle in the snow, have you?” Belle asked.

  Pamela’s expression was difficult to interpret. For a moment, it seemed as though she were trying to invent a lie in response to Belle’s innocent query. Then the worried behavior vanished, and her hands began moving the air as though recreating her artwork in space. “I’ve buried battery-powered theatre-type lamps in the snow … well, not completely buried, but enough so that only the round lamp face shows. And they’re designed to burn cool, or else the snow would melt too quickly … Anyway, each face reveals the mark of a letter: a black ‘A’ formed by the white light around it, and so forth … With the help of my wizard techno-advisor and aide, Jean-Claude, I’m able to change letters continually, so my ‘message,’ if you will, is constantly being altered and amended—”

  “Illuminated words,” Belle interjected as Helene marched with customary alacrity into the room.

  “What are you three talking about?” Her brow was creased in a peculiarly cross and anxious line.

  “My installation piece. That’s the only thing we were discussing.” In a defensive gesture, Pamela Gravers slumped slightly in her chair.

  “Ah, I see … I thought … Never mind.”

  A silence ensued. Belle could sense tension between the cousins. It was broken—or rather, avoided—when Pamela gulped an apologetic:

  “I’m afraid I dropped some cookie crumbs … If you’ve got a whisk broom—”

  “What are a few crumbs here and there?” Helene’s tone was harsh. In an atypical gesture, the hostess of Wordsworth House sighed while her shoulders sagged. “Let the mice eat them.”

  “Helene! You’d have a fit if a mouse even ventured inside this establishment.”

  Helene shrugged. “N’import.”

  “I’ll clean up—”

  “It’s not important, I tell you!”

  The phone rang at that moment, interrupting the awkward exchange. As their hostess hurried away, Belle and Rosco glanced at each other while Pamela stared glumly at the floor. “It’s not easy, this hotelier business,” she said. “As financially risky as being an artist. Maybe more so. At least, I don’t have the kind of mortgage Helene has—or her overhead.”

  “But if this was your grandfather’s home, didn’t Helene inherit it?” Belle began.

  “Is that what she told you?” Pamela’s wary frown now mirrored that of her cousin.

  “Well, no, I just assumed … your grandfather’s house … ‘And his grandfather’s before him.’ Those were Helene’s words.”

  Pamela folded her arms across her chest. “Inherit …” she finally muttered, then sat straighter in her chair as her voice grew in strength and resolution. “I don’t think a meaner individual than Maxime Verbeux ever existed! His two daughters—our moms—still haven’t gotten over his unkindness … betrayal, really. Yes, they inherited this building, or rather, all four of us did. But that was the extent of his largesse. And he was a wealthy man. A very wealthy man.”

  Neither Belle nor Rosco spoke, and Pamela continued in the same perturbed and angry tone. “When he died, everything he owned—everything except this property—went to his second wife and her two sons from a previous marriage. Maxime was an art connoisseur. He possessed a world-famous collection of medieval manuscripts among other valuable pieces … but he bequeathed nothing to his natural children. Nothing except this house, which by then had become a complete wreck and was ready to be torn down. It was Helene’s idea to renovate it and turn it into a commercial venture—to try to salvage something from our joint histories.”

  “Isn’t that difficult for your two mothers?”

  “They didn’t grow up here, so the building has no memories—other than its unfortunate association to a father who deserted them.” Pamela paused. “I guess when you mentioned the word ‘illuminated’ in connection with my installation piece, it triggered an unpleasant connection to old Maxime’s medieval manuscripts.” She shook her head. “Not that either Helene or I or our mothers aren’t proud to be earning our own way, or that we believe the world owes us a living … It’s just that … well, Maxime had so much … And it just ended up with people who aren’t related to the family at all.” Pamela gazed at the ceiling. “But more than the things, more than the money, what truly vanished was love.”

  Belle didn’t respond for a long moment. Neither did Rosco. The three sat while the fire’s cheery blaze threw warm and welcoming shadows across the room. However, none of the room’s inhabitants drew much comfort from the sight.

  At length, Pamela continued. “Our grandfather’s peculiar decision left Helene’s mom, and mine, wondering if perhaps their father never cared for them … or whether their memories of a happy childhood were real or honest—even asking themselves if their father might have actually disliked them—”

  “But surely that wasn’t the case?” Belle interjected.

  “Who knows? Helene and I are a generation removed, but the pain inflicted on our mothers was genuine.”

  “How can you turn your back on your kids?” Rosco asked although his question was directed at the air. “My dad did everything in his power to ensure his offspring got a better chance than he. He went without many things to provide for us. My mother, too. It was all about making sure the next generation had more than he did.”

  “That’s because your family is still closely tied to your European roots.” Belle frowned in thought. “But it happens, Rosco. You read about situations like this more often than you’d like—wealthy families being purposely hurtful to one another … If you don’t mind my asking, Pamela, what became of your grandfather’s art collection?”

  “Sold. Lock, stock, and barrel. Maxime’s second wife and her sons made a sizable profit … Needless to say, the four stepsiblings don’t communicate.”

  “It’s a sad story.” Belle shook her head in sympathy. “I guess it’s not possible that we’re looking at a generational custom … a holdover from the age when men held all the power, and women were considered chattel?”

  “Chattel?” Pamela Gravers forced a wan smile. “There’s an old-fashioned term.”

  Rosco also tried for a lighter tone. “My wife is fond of archaic phrases. It’s in her blood.”

  “Whether or not that’s the case, Belle, it doesn’t alter the fact that old Maxime Verbeux disowned his daughters.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “But as I said: The past is the past. And perhaps Helene and I and our mothers are better off. Maybe I wouldn’t be an artist if I had a cushy nest egg.” Pamela attempted a plucky smile. “I wonder if the word ‘chattel’ bears any connection to the French châtelaine, the mistress of a medieval castle, a château, a lady whose power was certainly negligible …”

  “I believe ‘chattel’ shares lexical roots with ‘cattle,’” was Belle’s response.

  “Too bad. I was envisioning word associations between châtelaine and châtiment—‘chastisement,’ in English. I was beginning to think it might serve as inspiration for another installation piece.”

  Belle and Rosco
raised their eyebrows.

  “Too racy, I guess,” Pamela admitted. “I’ll save it for Paris.” Then her momentary mood of levity disappeared. “Don’t let Helene know I told you any of this. As you can see, she’s sensitive when it comes to the subject of Maxime Verbeux.”

  “Maybe she needs to set up shop in another building,” Belle offered.

  “That’s what her mom keeps saying, and you can imagine how successful that suggestion is. Helene’s stubborn, and she’d definitely not about to adhere to parental advice. She won’t even change the house’s name although it’s a constant reminder of mean Maxime.”

  “Wordsworth House brought us here,” Belle said. “I liked the allusion even before we saw the brochure. Poems and words. Two of my favorite things.”

  “Les poemes et les paroles,” Pamela translated, then she put her head to one side in thought. “I wonder what connection there is between the French for ‘word’ and a prison parolee?”

  “Actually, I know the answer to that,” Rosco said; both women looked at him in surprise. “A ‘parol’ was the watchword or password supplied to a guard or sentry during the days before electronic surveillance systems, etc. It has both law enforcement and military connotations … But I never knew our English ‘word’ translates to parole.”

  “A prisoner of words,” Belle mused.

  AFTER Pamela Graver’s description of her artwork, nothing would have kept Belle from experiencing it firsthand. She and Rosco made their way to the Place des Arts, asking directions along the way, none of which turned out to be necessary as the night sky above the festival site was nearly as bright as day. Plumes of crystallized vapor shot high into air that bounced with search lights, laser beams, and sparks and pulses of illumination as brilliant and varicolored as fireworks. Eerie and beautiful stilt-walking figures draped in ultralight robes bobbed and weaved, their long garments and masks turning violet or pale heliotrope or an incandescent silver while bonfires sent feathers of flame billowing into the cold, thin air; and fire-eaters, jugglers, and acrobats, also clad in space-age suits and mylar hats, either swallowed red-hot swords or balanced hoops and balls that changed shade in midair: purple to crimson, aquamarine to bronze, gold to saffron. Accompanying each visual spectacle was music orchestrated to reflect and enhance the individual performance.