The Maid's Diary(14)

“Yeah.”

Boon sits silent awhile. “I guess donkeys kick pretty hard.”

“I guess. She was injected with meds and died a few hours later.” I suddenly feel a need to kick these ashes free. “Let’s do this.”

I stand up, release the bamboo pin on the lid of the urn, twist the top, and empty her ashes into the wind. My mom’s cremains blow up and out and sideways and down—she literally explodes from the urn. Against the gray fog, the explosive cloud of her ashes appears silvery and white. She booms up into the air like a little atomic cloud, blows back over us, scatters down into the sea, up into the branches and sky. She goes everywhere. And I laugh and laugh and laugh, feeling her delight. Her wild freedom. Recycled. Back into the universe.

I inhale deeply, feeling her go. But I feel lost, too. Adrift suddenly on this ocean of life.

And that was that.

We hike back to our cars. The pack on my back is light with the empty urn.

When we reach the parking lot, there is a bright-blue Tesla Roadster parked at the opposite end of the parking lot, about as distant as it can possibly get from the cheap ordinariness of Boon’s ancient brown Honda and my yellow Subaru Crosstrek.

“Stop—wait,” I say to Boon.

He catches the gleam in my eyes and grins broadly. Our little game is afoot. Our private joke against the world of money and false narratives, because things are never what they seem.

Without speaking, we move in unison toward the blue Tesla. We go into improv mode, falling naturally into our poses as we lean against the Roadster. Boon drapes his arm around my shoulders. I look adoringly up into his face as I hold out my phone and click. You can do so much with body posture, facial expressions. You can exude confidence, appear as though you own this world. It’s our mockery of those who think they do, and who exploit others.

We adjust our poses, click again. I blow him a kiss—he throws back his head and laughs.

We shoot one more.

Boon gets into his old Honda and drives off to his movie set in Burnaby (which is posing for Boston). I climb into my Subaru with my mops and Dyson in the back and the Holly’s Help logo on the doors. As the engine warms and mist clears from my windshield, I select one of the photos. I open my @foxandcrow Instagram account (tricksters both, the fox and crow—and I have a fondness for corvids). I upload the image. I type the hashtags #meandmyhoney #earlymorninghikesbeforebreakfast #lovelife #westcoastliving #teslalove #planningnexttrip. I post the image.

I engage my gears and drive to my new job.

Little do I know as I enter the stream of traffic on the highway that, after this moment, everything will change.

I told you, Dear Diary—two events. Same day. Coalescing. Letting go of my mom’s ashes. And . . . the new clients in a house called Rose Cottage.





JON


October 17, 2019. Thursday.

Two weeks before the murder.

Jon Rittenberg is in the Hunter and Hound with Henry. It’s a men’s kind of pub. Heavy wood paneling, dark leather upholstery, low lighting, antique-green shades. It’s here that silver-haired TerraWest board member Henry J. Clay has invited Jon for drinks and an early dinner. Which by Henry’s definition means top-shelf whisky and Wagyu beef.

Henry hunkers like a toad in the booth opposite Jon, aggressively carving his steak with a wooden-handled knife. The old man’s meat is so rare it’s almost blue. Henry lifts a chunk to his mouth but pauses his fork midair. He nods at Jon’s untouched meat. “Not hungry, son?”

Jon regards the blood leaking into the potato mash on Henry’s plate. He’s lost his appetite. He’s still struggling to digest what Henry has just told him.

“Go on, it’s the best meat around.” Henry reaches for his glass of fourteen-year-old Balvenie and washes his meat down.

“So there are definitely two of us in the running? Are you sure?” Jon asks. Because it doesn’t make sense.

Henry laughs, takes another swig of Balvenie, and motions to the pretty young server in a low-cut top to bring another round. He dabs the corners of his mouth with his linen napkin and says, “Look, if Labden hadn’t gone and retired so suddenly, your promotion would be in the bag. You know that.”

“But?”

“But things have changed, Jonno. Labden no longer holds the cards. He’s handed the reins to fresher blood. I’m the only old fart still hanging in there.”

A cauldron of acid begins to bubble in Jon’s gut.

This was supposed to be mine. Labden guaranteed me the COO position for the new resort when it comes online. I’ve put my heart and sweat into this company for years. TerraWest has traded on my name, my Olympic fame, my gold medals, for God’s sake. I’m married to the founder’s daughter.

“And frankly, son, even Labden could see it was time to switch things up. Perception is everything, Jonno. TerraWest needs to be seen as making changes that keep us in pace with sentiment around the world.”

“Who is he? My competition?”

“Have you considered it might be a she, not a he?”

“Is it a she?”

Henry laughs again. “It’s a he.” His eyes narrow. “You met him. At the presentation last week. Fresh off the plane from Zermatt. The new guy in the office.”

“Ahmed Waheed? The guy from North Africa?” Jon is stunned. His mind reels back to meeting the new arrival last week. “What in the hell does Waheed know about running a ski resort?”