Bill Walton 

Chapter 2

The final police accident report of Karen's death was really quite straight forward. Her car, a blue Volvo station wagon, had been forced off the road by another vehicle, later learned to be a five-tonne Tilden Rental truck. The site of the accident was approximately 500 metres east of the intersection of Highway 11 and the Stanton side road, the access road to our home in the Braeden subdivision. Road conditions were slippery and the visibility poor with fog and a light snow at the estimated time of the accident. The Stanton side road follows the top of a ridge and the Volvo had been forced off the narrow, winding road, plunging down the steep fifty-foot embankment, finally coming to rest in a stand of large maple trees. The accident happened at approximately 9:30 p.m., the time the clock in the Volvo had stopped, on a Wednesday night, the night that Karen taught a beginner's art class at the King City community centre. I did not find Karen until after eleven, when I became concerned that she was not home at her usual time of ten o'clock. A broken guard rail was what led me to the wreckage. I called 911 on my cellular phone, asking for the police and an ambulance, although I knew that Karen was dead.

The skid marks on the pavement showed where dual tires had gripped and then slid on the wet surface. Pieces of glass and the bent chrome rim of the left headlamp from the Volvo were near the centre of the road so we knew immediately that there had been a collision. There was yellow paint in the deep dents and scratches all along the driver's side of Karen's car. The truck had fled the scene but was found abandoned in a parking lot in Newmarket the next morning. The truck contained eight cases of smuggled cigarettes, which the file noted were all past the best freshness date, an imaginary time when cigarettes taste and smell worse than ever. It had been rented that same Wednesday afternoon using stolen identification and credit card for the transaction. The subsequent investigation by the OPP showed that there was no question that the owner of the credit card and license had not been involved in the accident. The identification was that of a prominent Toronto criminal lawyer, J. Silverstein, whose credit card was used to rent the truck. The Tilden clerk was positive that Silverstein was not the person who had signed the contract form. The lawyer had been mugged and robbed that very day while waiting for a bus and had reported the crime to the police. Silverstein was not well-liked by the Toronto area police because he represented a number of the well-known criminals in our region. I admit that he was a good defence lawyer who had no compunction doing anything at all to discredit a police officer and his testimony. Naturally, when Joe was mugged, it was a big joke and no effort was made to find the assailants. J. Silverstein was at dinner with a client that evening and had an alibi for the time of the accident. The cancellation of the credit card was delayed by a computer error of some kind. When the Tilden Rental clerk entered the credit card, it was not flagged as invalid. The police were unable to find any finger prints on the truck and assumed that the driver had panicked after the accident and wiped the vehicle clean before he left it in the parking lot. The contraband cigarettes in the truck pointed to smugglers since cigarette smuggling was all the rage at that time. There had been a rash of warehouse thefts in the area where the use of rental trucks was suspected, and that was the official explanation in the report. I never bought into that premise because the cigarettes were stale-dated and could not have been sold. They were simply a prop to mislead the police. The cause of death was officially recorded as a broken neck. A comment in the file stated that the victim was not wearing a seat belt.

Karen always wore her seat belt.

The investigating OPP officer, Stu Carson, told me that he thought it odd that Karen would have suffered a broken neck because the car was not that badly damaged. Volvos are tough machines, one of our considerations when we bought the vehicle. He believed me when I said my wife always wore a seat belt because we OPP officers always stress safety to our families, but we had no reason then to suspect foul play. As far as I knew, Karen had no known enemies. I know that they checked me out as a matter of course, but it was apparent very soon that I had no motive to have my wife murdered. I kept in touch with Carson and he shared the file with me, although technically, he should not have. He too, was not really satisfied that it was an accident, but we could not find any reason to keep the file open. I got into trouble by doggedly nosing around the criminal lawyer to see if there was anything in his background that looked suspicious, but he complained to the Superintendent and got a restraining order. I was told to keep away or else.

The only controversial aspect in Karen's life was the Dali painting scam that she had exposed. If there was a motive for murder, it had to be the connection with the Dali paintings.

I had read Karen's notes then and traced the would-be seller of the fake Dali painting to an art dealer in Montreal. I hired a private detective to investigate this man but the detective could not give me any worthwhile information. The dealer had been known to handle some art works that came to him through non-conventional ways, and he was careful to select his buyers from those private individuals who keep their art only for themselves. Selling a stolen work of art to a gallery or museum was not advised. Private collectors would sometimes purchase hot merchandise and keep it for years as an investment hoping to sell it when the dust had settled and then only to another collector. The shady art dealer uses the greed factor to sell his works. Men who were otherwise very careful with their money tended to let caution slip when they had the chance to get a painting that their fellow collectors wanted. In no time the underground network would spread the word that a new Dali was for sale. The Montreal dealer knew who the main Dali collectors were and Morse was on his list of prospective buyers. What the dealer failed to realize was that Morse was also the prime director of the Dali Museum. Museum boards are much more careful about their purchases. To display a painting and then have someone dispute its authenticity would be a disaster in public relations. The dealer must have known that the Dali painting would undergo some scrutiny, but that was all part of the excitement of the scam. In retrospect, he may not have known whether the painting was real or whether it was a fake. Or he may not have cared. What he had not known was that Karen would subject the painting to her definitive test.

Karen had taken her Dali glasses and her sheets of prism-coloured paper and travelled with Reynolds Morse and his staff to Montreal. My feeling was that Morse himself had some doubts about the painting but Karen told me the old man was carrying cashiers' cheques totalling $500,000 US and had every intention of bringing the painting home. But the glasses and the spectrograph colour sheets said something was not right with the painting and Karen had thrown enough doubt on the authenticity that the sale had failed. Of course the collector's underground information network spread the word and the dealer could not sell the painting. It was withdrawn from sale and the dealer later spread the word that it had been pulled from the market by the owner. My detective was unable to discover the identity of that owner. He had managed a look at the dealer's files but there was nothing in the records. Apparently the old dealer kept some things only in his head. A good security system when you are handling goods of questionable origin or ownership.

Even though the reputation of the painting was forever in question, the dealer or the owner may have had a motive to want Karen out of the way. Perhaps whoever painted the first fake Dali had another, and once Karen and her funny glasses were removed from the scene, more paintings might surface. My connections with the art world did not get me far, although I did ask Mother to help. But her sources had not heard of any more new Dali paintings after Karen's death.

There was no connection between the Montreal art dealer and the Toronto criminal lawyer that we could find. Of course, they would cover their tracks very carefully. They would not be involved with the murder personally, so they would hire someone for that. Stu Carson could find nothing from his information sources in Toronto, but again, the hired help would most likely have come from Montreal if indeed the dealer was involved. The only person who had any connection with Karen's death was the lawyer. I began checking on him. When I discovered that he had not asked for a replacement driver's license, I started digging deeper. It turned out that his wallet had been found in a waste basket at the Upper Canada Mall in Newmarket a week after the accident. Everything, except the cash, was still in the wallet. It took almost a month for the paper work to clear in getting the wallet back to the lawyer, and by that time Stu's investigation had wound down. I was trying to find out why the lawyer would wait a whole month to renew his driver's license when someone tipped the lawyer that I was again meddling in his affairs. I was called up on the carpet, told to get my nose out of the closed accident investigation. I had some strong words with the Superintendent that I later regretted, but my emotions were running a little high. On top of this, we had just lost a major court case and I was finding the whole due process of the law very frustrating. Philip saw this and again offered me a job at the firm. I quit the force the next week.

During that week I managed to get everything in the file copied and safely hidden at home. Thursday night, after I had packed my clothes for Florida, I went through the file again. I came up with absolutely nothing new. The only thing that I had not checked was the mismatch of the invoices and the number of glasses Karen had purchased. I would do that as soon as I returned from Florida. In the back of my mind I thought that the one strong prescription must have been for the elderly A. Reynolds Morse and dismissed this as a clue that could prove Karen was murdered.

I was dutifully at Pearson International the required hour and a half before flight time so my luggage could be inspected for bombs, my carry-on probed for hidden weapons and my stomach assaulted by the strong black coffee that tasted as if it had brewed and stewed all night in anticipation of early-morning travellers who needed their eyes popped open by a jolt of raw caffeine. The only weapon I was carrying was a new jumbo-sized golf club that my golf pro said would add at least twenty yards to my driving distance. My fear was that the slight slice I had would now send a ball twenty more yards into trouble, but I was determined to get my handicap under ten. Hitting the ball a few more yards on the par five holes might just make the difference. I needed to get within pitching club range before I could work my magic on the golf course. I was now looking forward to a few games of golf to break up the cold winter we had been suffering through.

The flight was smooth and uneventful, just the way I like to fly. The passengers were mostly sun-seekers, off to spend a couple of a thousand dollars for a week of Florida leisure that they would talk about until next year, when they would again travel south for a sunburn, some pina coladas or tall bloody Marys as they sat pool-side and relaxed with friends. I was likely the only one on the flight wearing a business suit and carrying a laptop computer. I was also likely the only one to decline the complimentary glass of champagne and orange juice that the cabin crew was using to get these sun-seekers ready for their holidays. I browsed through the files and tried to plan a schedule that would allow me to golf every other day, either in the morning before meeting a Realtor or in the afternoon after a morning tour of potential shopping mall properties. Two weeks should be plenty of time if I could find a real estate agent who was keen and knew the area.

The Boeing 757 touched down smoothly and the sun-seekers all applauded the crew's fine landing. My luggage arrived intact and I caught the shuttle to the car rental office across the highway from the airport. Twenty minutes after landing, I was standing at the counter to pick up my rental car. There is always a hitch in every holiday and it looked like mine was going to be the car.

"Mr. Pilger, we have a subcompact car reserved for you but if you would like to upgrade, I'll see what we can do," the pert young thing at the Dollar counter smiled to me. I'm sure they have only one subcompact car in the lot that they know nobody wants. They park it right at the front of the line beside a regular size car for easy comparison. It's not hard to rationalize an extra five dollars a day for a bigger car when you see them parked together.

"Yes, I'd like something a little bigger. Not full-size, but something I can fit into," I smiled and stood taller to emphasize the point.

"Was that one week or two, Mr. Pilger?" she asked even though she had only to look at the reservation letter that said two weeks.

"Two weeks, and I may want to extend that to three weeks. I'll let you know," I said.

"Two weeks is fine, but I don't think we have anything open for the third week. Everything is booked for the school break, but we may be able to work something out," she smiled prettily as if to say that if I had the money up front they could work out anything. Some poor character would arrive three weeks from now and find that there had been a mistake in the reservations and all they had left was one Hyundai Excel that would seat five comfortably - if the three kids were all under the age of ten and would sit quietly beside each other without jabbing elbows.

"Okay, let's see what is available and if I like the car, I'll pay for the three weeks right now." I put the onus back on her - give me a satisfactory car or else lose the sure business.

"We have a Chevrolet Caprice - that's a large car," she said.

The latest issue of the Chevrolet Caprice is one of the ugliest cars ever made. There was no way I would drive one of them. "Sorry, I don't care for the Chevrolets. Do you have one of the new Chryslers?" I asked. I was thinking of buying an Eagle Vision tsi to replace my four-year-old Buick and this would be a good time to test drive one. The clerk flipped through her file and shook her head. Sorry, they're all out. All I have left in the Chrysler line is a Laser convertible and a Jeep Grand Cherokee."

It's too hot in Florida to drive with the top down, and I did not want any extra ultra violet rays while I was driving. "I'll take the Jeep," I said, thinking to fulfil my fantasy of driving a four-wheel drive vehicle. "It does have air, doesn't it?" I asked on second thought.

"Yes, it has air. This one is loaded." I picked up the pen to sign the contract. Martin Cosso could pay the premium price. He, and Upper Canada Malls - I could split the cost of the Jeep down the middle so they would both think I had rented the Hyundai.

After patiently explaining to the clerk that I had adequate liability insurance through my father's travel agency and then leaving an impression of my VISA card, I was off to the Helnan. I passed the Holiday Inn on the road in from the Tampa airport and was tempted to stop and ask if they had a room. I could always make up some story for Mary about the Helnan being over booked or under renovations, but I thought better of the deception. I was on a working trip, after all, and I owed it to the firm to check out the Helnan accommodations that Dad had arranged for the flights crews.

A block from the Helnan I saw signs for the new Tampa Museum of Art, and right next to it, a display of metal horses standing in a reflecting pool. I would have to get some photographs of that display - a herd of different coloured horses grazing among the towering skyscrapers. It was a very interesting concept. And of course, I would visit the new museum. Karen and I always stopped at every museum we came across in the States. There was always something unique and unexpected in these small local museums. Some rich benefactor would leave his collection to his hometown museum, often giving works that were more valuable than the whole current collection in the soon-to-be famous little building.

Karen and I were particularly interested in the ancient works from Greece and Italy. Karen had majored in art when she attended university, and it was the second-year course on Greek art that set her career. She studied ancient Greek works and compared them with the work the Romans did a few hundred years later. She had an excellent instructor at the university and this placed her on the path of art authentication. Her speciality was figuring out whether the vases found in southern Italy were made in Greece or if they were of local manufacture by artisans from Greece who had immigrated to southern Italy. I absorbed enough of her skills by osmosis that I could spot some of the better known works. Some of the superior craftspeople had their own little trademarks and once I spotted one, I could tell the works of that person or the people who had been taught by him.

Karen told me that about the turn of the century, rich Americans travelled to that part of the Mediterranean, the place where our western culture was born, and bought shiploads of pottery and statues that the locals grossly undervalued. I made a mental note to visit the Tampa Museum of Art since it would surely have a collection worthy of an afternoon's visit.

From the outside, the Riverside Helnan looked much the way it did when I was last there. The stucco was still an ochre-pink, reminiscent of the south of France, but not quite making that impression nestled here among the modern office towers of downtown Tampa. I attached the privacy cover on the back seat of the Jeep so no one would see my golf clubs and left the vehicle in the lower level of the garage. I glanced out the opening on the west side and realized that if the river rose about six feet, this part of the garage would be under water. Florida gets the occasional heavy shower so I thought I should check the weather forecast before leaving the Jeep there again. There were water marks on the walls, so flooding was not out of the question.

Things had changed at the Helnan. The very attractive female clerk explained that I could use the pool and their new exercise room, the cocktail bar would be open every evening, except Sunday, from five until seven thirty, complimentary continental breakfast was served in the lounge area from seven until ten, laundry service was available, but no, the dining room had been closed for several years. The one thing I had liked about the Helnan was that old dinning room.

"What happened to the dining room?" I asked.

"Well, I guess there just wasn't enough business anymore. They turned it into two meeting rooms. We get the conference overflow from some of the bigger hotels in the area. If you want a light meal, the Riverside Cafe is quite good. They offer room service too, if you're interested. I usually have one of their sandwich specials for lunch after I work out in the gym," she said.

I did not need to be told that she worked out. She appeared to me to be in her mid-thirties, was all muscle and very attractive, as I had noted more than once during our short conversation. No ring on her finger, either. For the first time in three years I felt a little interest in a woman. "What time did you say the exercise room opened?" I asked, knowing that she had said seven a.m.

I asked about restaurants in the area, all the while knowing that I would be going to BDC's and Shell's. Carol (her name tag) suggested that the Hyatt had a very good formal dining room as well as a more casual bar where you could order excellent Texas ribs. I said I liked ribs and might give that a try some evening. Carol commented that her bowling team went there every Wednesday about 8.00 p.m. so I made a note of the time. When I mentioned that I would like to do some golfing, Carol picked out some brochures for me, throwing in another coupon for free oranges and grapefruit and a half-price pass to Busch Gardens. I now had enough half-price passes to get into Busch Gardens free.

Even though it was not yet eleven, the room was ready for me. The room was comfortably large with a balcony that looked out over the Hillsborough River across town to the campus of the University of Tampa. The mattress was new, the springs still firm, the way I like them. The drapes appeared to be the same as I last remembered, but then, I don't usually take particular notice of things like that. I went out to the balcony to take in the view one more time. I took a few minutes to recall how excited Karen had been when she first saw the minarets. The sun was setting that evening when we had arrived and the pink sky behind the university had made a postcard picture for us. Karen made me promise that the first thing next morning we would cross the river and investigate this strange fantasy land where Moorish minarets stood against the evening sky in the middle of Florida. I gave a little involuntary sigh and went back inside to unpack my clothes.

I made myself a work area using the round arborite table. Its glass-stained top and cigarette scars spoke more of the holidays than work days but when I had my laptop computer and little printer hooked up, it looked more businesslike. I scrolled up the list of names of the real estate brokers that Mary had found in one of her directories and began dialling the telephone. The first two businesses I called did not have anyone in the commercial office who was familiar with the Clearwater area, and although they assured me they had contacts across the Bay, I said no thanks. The third name on the list was Boyd Brokers. A pleasant voice told me that indeed, Mr. Boyd knew the Clearwater area very well - he lived in Dunedin. It was two weeks before the Blue Jays would be in training camp, but if I extended my stay, I too, might be in Dunedin. Mr. Boyd was just going to lunch - would I care to join him? I was ready for a light lunch so I agreed, saying I would meet him at the front desk in twenty minutes.

He was three minutes late, but somehow I knew when the big man in the western-cut suit came through the door, it had to be Boyd. He was just over six feet tall and must have weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds, perhaps a year or two older than I. He looked like what I thought would be a typical swampland Realtor, someone who had just recently upgraded from Mac's Fine Used Cars. The man did doff his white Stetson hat as he came into the lobby so maybe he was not going to be a total loss. He handed me his card, William Robert Boyd, C.R.A., and said, "Howdy, Frank. Folks call me Billy Bob. Glad to meet you." He spoke with that slow, unhurried speech common to southerners.

"Uh, yes," I said, not wanting to say 'Billy Bob' just yet. I would need a few minutes to get my grin under control. 'Billy Bob' sounded like a name from the Ozarks, a name you might find at a bait stand somewhere, not a name for this big fellow in the western-cut suit. I glanced at his shoes and sure enough, they were snake-skin cowboy boots. I was going to have to tell Mary that her listing of Realtors needed editing when I got back to Canada.

Outside was an older pink Cadillac, license plate BB Boyd, of course. At least it did not have a set of steers' horns attached to the hood, although this being Florida, a stuffed alligator head might have been more suitable. I almost felt like saying thanks but no thanks right then but I did have to eat lunch so I decided to stick it out and see if Billy Bob Boyd was from the Ozarks. The old car was in surprisingly excellent shape and we rode quietly and smoothly along as Billy Bob pointed out some of the highlights of downtown Tampa. I did not say that I knew the area well but listened to his spiel just to judge how well he knew the area himself.

"That there is the old town hall over to your right," he pointed out, "They were going to tear it down and put up one of those damned fancy glass towers. They finally voted 6 to 4, agreeing that the old building had a little class of its own, and they decided to renovate the old town hall. Personally, I like these older buildings - gives the city a sense of history, you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I agree," I said. Thinking to test his knowledge, I asked, "I noticed all those minarets across the river. What's that all about?"

"There is a real interesting story to that. My wife's the expert on the history of the Plant hotel, but apparently this fellow Plant wanted to build the best hotel west of New York - this was back in the eighteen nineties - so he hired an architect and told him he wanted something Moorish. Damnedest thing you ever saw, eh, Frank? You should go over and take a look while you're here if you're interested in history and such. They have some turn of the century stuff that Melissa says is not bad. The grounds are the University of Tampa now, but part of the hotel is a museum."

"Yes, I may drop over if I get a chance,@ I said. At least he knew something about the history of Tampa. "I saw some metal horses in a reflecting pond on the way in - I'll have to take a closer look at them also. That's an interesting idea."

"Yeah, I like that one too. The artist is a local fellow and he comes down here once a week and moves the horses around. He makes some interesting effects with those tin horses. Me, I like the live ponies better. There's a race track just north of here - the ponies run every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday, if you're interested."

It was difficult not to overeat at lunch. Sitting across from Billy Bob as he devoured a plate of shrimp, a serving of pasta and then a veal cutlet with obvious enjoyment, was an invitation to participate and I did enjoy the shrimp. Billy Bob took some notes on what I was looking for in the real estate. He had sized me up as a serious buyer and was now doing business. He said he would have a list of properties ready by tomorrow morning at ten when he would pick me up and we could start looking. When he said we could spend the whole day visiting the different properties, I suggested that we spread it out a little since I was here partly on vacation and wanted to get in some golf.

"Hell, Frank, that's great! I'll run you around to some places tomorrow morning and we can have a game of golf in the afternoon. We usually golf Tuesday afternoons and you could join us. There's a nice little course just near to where we live. We'll bring your clubs and we can make a day of it, maybe go out to dinner afterwards. You don't mind golfing with my wife, do you?"

"Well, no, I don't mind, and sure, that's sounds great. I would like to change clothes though if we're going to dinner afterwards."

"Hey, no problem. Just bring yourself a fresh shirt. You can shower at our place after the game. There's no sense in you all driving all the way back here. Melissa and I always eat out on Tuesdays and it will be good to have some company. She can tell you everything about that Plant Hotel!"

We talked about the property requirements and I stressed the need for confidentiality. Billy Bob Boyd seemed all business when talking real estate and money but the next moment he was guffawing with the table server like some good old boy. He talked a good game of golf, replaying some of his favourite courses for me along with his score. He talked a ten handicap but I got the impression it would be more like a fourteen or fifteen when we got on the course. I backed off on my eight to a twelve handicap, allowing for four months of not having a club in my hands. If I had known the trouble that new jumbo driver was going to give me, I would have added another couple of strokes.

Billy Bob dropped me off at the Helnan about two. I felt like a nap so I put my head down for a fifteen minute snooze and woke up at four ten. I could hear some people splashing around in the pool six floors below, so I changed into my swimming trunks and headed down for a refreshing dip. There were some young ladies sitting beside the pool, so like a really macho man, I dove into the pool without testing the water temperature. The water was very cool in the unheated pool, but I found it pleasant enough after the first few minutes of shock. That is, when my heart started beating again and some feeling returned to my genitals. Most of the twenty or so people around the pool were content to dip their toes into the water and then lie back and absorb some of the last warm rays of the afternoon sun. One older couple were swimming and as I passed the lady she said, "The water's nice, eh?" so I knew she was Canadian. No wonder the Floridians think we're like polar bears.

There was a group of three attractive young ladies sitting together at the pool. I had noticed that one had a Transat flight bag so I towelled off and walked over, thinking to ask them how they liked the Helnan. I was just doing my second job, the one that Dad had laid on for me. The women saw me coming and I caught a fleeting look that said, "Oh no, not another one!" as if I was going to try to hustle one of these beautiful young women.

"Hi," I said, trying to stand close enough to have a private conversation but not so close as to drip water on the stewardesses. "Do you ladies work for Transat?"

The brunette gave me her professional Transat smile, "Yes, we do." No invitation to continue the conversation, but I forged on.

"My name's Frank Pilger. My firm is part of the management group that runs Transat Tours." The busty blonde looked at me as if to say that she was not impressed with management and that line would get me nowhere. "We arranged for the Helnan as your stopover hotel and I wanted to ask you if everything was satisfactory here."

The other blonde, perhaps the oldest of the trio, replied, "You really do work for that Tour Company? You're not just laying a line on us?"

"I really do. I don't have my business cards with me right now, but I am staying here to do an unofficial survey of the flight crews. Pilger, Scott and Wilson is the company's name. We're in Markham."

"You're the Pilger of Pilger, Scott and whatever?" asked the brunette.

"Well, no. That's my father. He's the one that put me onto this job since I was down here doing some real estate business. Personally, I find the old Helnan acceptable, if a little run down at the corners, but for the price . . ."

"It's okay, I guess," blonde number two said. "I wish it had a restaurant - sometimes I don't feel like going out to eat after a tough day, but yes, it's okay."

"It's quiet and clean, something you don't always get in some of the hotel chains," the brunette offered.

"Okay," I said, "Out of a ten, what score do you give it?" I got two sevens and a six, thanked the ladies and turned to go when I thought maybe I should ask them about dinner.

"By the way, do you have any favourite restaurants around here? It's my first day and I haven't looked around for a good place to eat yet."

"We're going over to BDC's at seven," blonde number two said. A Be in the lobby at six forty-five and you can join us, if you like."

"Well, thanks very much. I'll see you then." She seemed like a very pleasant person. Wedding band on her finger, but I knew that stewardesses often wore a ring just to keep the wolves at bay. I glanced down at the single gold band on my ring finger. It was scratched and nicked from years of wearing when I was working on equipment, digging in the garden and just life in general. It still had that warm, reassuring glow of gold, that comforting bond which still existed with Karen.

Kelsey, the number two blonde was a very nice lady, as I somehow had guessed. She was married, had two little girls, who from their photographs, would grow up to be every bit as pretty as their mother. Candace, blonde number one, was the youngest of the three and was just finding her way in life. She was pleasant enough, but I would guess that on closer inspection, would turn out to be the stereotype of the dumb blonde jokes. Nancy, the brunette, was a single mother, separated, with a daughter and quite intelligent. She too, had a photograph of her daughter, Marisa, a pretty child of three or four years, by my guess. Nancy had no problem conversing on any topic that I could throw at her. She had a degree in business administration and made no bones about wanting to move up in the travel industry. She had a plan to work two years in the airline business, move over to tours and then open her own travel business. I gave her one of my business cards and told her to contact my father when she was ready to do her tours session. She would make an excellent employee if Philip needed anyone.

We dined very well at BDC's, as I knew from experience we would. The Italian food there is simply superb. I had my favourite veal parmigiana followed by a Boston lettuce salad, a small piece of decadent double chocolate cake and two cups of their Brazilian coffee. I sprung for the litre bottle of Zapa Valley California red that Kelsey, Candace and I had no problem polishing off. The only complaint I had at BDC's was their wine selection. They carried the usual Chianti as their imported Italian wine, but the rest of the selection was strictly American, which although quite adequate for a nation that does not drink much wine, simply is not as good as a proper bottle of good French red wine to compliment Italian food.

It was a most pleasant evening for me and I invited the women to give me a call when I was back in Canada. If they ever had any complaints about their stopover rooms, they should most certainly contact Philip and tell him that I would support their case. I had a good sleep that night, unusual for a first night in a strange room, but I felt relaxed and comfortable with myself after the enjoyable dinner and the long walk the four of us had through the downtown of Tampa. The stewardesses were long gone by the time I showered and went downstairs for the continental breakfast in the lounge area. There was a business card under my door that morning with Nancy's Toronto address and phone number neatly printed - along with the short message - "call me."