"Will do," says the dispatcher. "Has she paid?"
Trina hesitates. "Ah… actually the old dear hasn't any money, so give me the tab. And make sure she gets the best, OK, no gas station grunge."
"Hey, I could use flowers," jokes Margaret. "How come there's no one in my life like you?"
"You just wait until the most exciting thing in your life is a soft-boiled egg and a clean diaper and you may get lucky."
"I know, I know. So, is that it?"
Trina takes a deep breath. "Actually, it's Wednesday."
"And?"
"I usually give old Mr. Sampson an enema on Wednesdays."
"OK. If it's essential?"
"It's not really," admits Trina reluctantly. "But it gives the poor old guy a bit of a thrill."
"Shit, Trina, you're supposed to be a homecare nurse not a freakin' sex worker."
"I know, I know. But sometimes I think it's the only thing he lives for."
"Well, I know what I live for, and no one ever gives me that," sighs the dispatcher pointedly, and Trina is considering suggesting the other woman might have more success if she were to lose a couple hundred pounds when Margaret asks concernedly, "You're not sick or anything?"
"No, I'm fine," explains Trina before detailing Janet and her symptoms.
"Sounds like me when I'm pissed," suggests Margaret, "although it could be that she's subconsciously blocking out some traumatic experience by returning to a time before it happened. You should get her to a shrink."
"Yeah. I know," replies Trina. "But she's so scared she'll probably run if I take her out of the house. Anyway, I have some ideas."
Trina's first idea involves Daphne Lovelace, a long-time resident of Westchester, England, with a propensity for getting involved in situations that should properly be left to the authorities. But in a way, Daphne still considers herself to be a part of the authorities, and despite more than thirty years on the pensioner's list at Whitehall's Ministry of Defence, she has never fully retired. A twenty-five-year stint as the cleaning lady at Westchester police station before her compulsory departure from the workforce merely reinforces her belief that she is still a servant of Her Majesty. The Order of the British Empire, awarded to her for unspecified acts of national importance during and after the Second World War, proves conclusively, in her mind at least, that despite her advancing years she has the full backing of the British government.
"Janet Thurgood from Dewminster," Daphne muses aloud once she's digested the information from her Canadian friend. "Doesn't ring a bell, but it's only about ten miles. I could get a bus over there tomorrow afternoon and make some inquiries. What was the address again?"
"Yes! Lovelace and Button are back in business," shrills Trina in delight as she punches the air, and Daphne laughs at the younger woman's exuberance.
"Just don't tell David what we're doing or he'll have me arrested by Interpol for interfering in international investigations."
"Roger, wilco," says Trina in a passable English accent, knowing that Daphne's friend Detective Chief Inspector David Bliss of Scotland Yard has good reason to complain about civilians meddling in police affairs. He still walks with a limp from a flesh wound inflicted on him the last time that Daphne and Trina decided to do a little sleuthing on their own and wound up uncovering a CIA operation in the mountains of Washington State.
Bliss is not in a position to complain about any extra-judicial inquiries this time. Despite several attempts to resign from London's Metropolitan Police Service to begin his writing career, and to avoid further confrontations with a slippery senior officer named Edwards, Bliss is still firmly listed as a serving officer. However, a full year's sabbatical on half pay — a reward for services above and beyond the call of duty — has provided him with both the time and the means to complete his great historical work, and it's no coincidence that he has chosen the faded Mediterranean resort of St-Juan-sur-Mer as his pied-à-terre.
From his Provençal apartment's balcony, David Bliss looks across the beautiful azure bay to the fortress on the island of Ste. Marguerite, the one-time residence of Louis XIV's legendary prisoner l'homme au masque de fer — the Man in the Iron Mask — and wraps himself in the ambience of the Mediterranean as he attempts to recreate the intriguing world of the French aristocracy at the end of the seventeenth century.
Three months, and Bliss's first draft of the true account of the legendary masked man, The Truth Behind the Mask, is already half complete. However, he is growing concerned that his schedule is slipping, and bubbly real estate agent Daisy Leblanc isn't helping, though he doesn't complain as he hears her key in the apartment's door.
"I 'ave brought you zhe dinner, Daavid," Daisy calls in her Gallicized English as the door closes behind her, and Bliss is drawn from the balcony to a sight more pleasing than the vermillion sun setting over the aquamarine bay and verdant islands.
"What would I do without you?" he says as he takes the tray, wraps Daisy in his arms, and kisses her.
"You would starve to death, I zhink." She laughs, putting a picnic basket and a bottle of local wine on the table, then she pulls back to give him a serious look. "Zhat is why I zhink I should come and live here with you."
"Daisy," starts Bliss without knowing where he is going, "I don't think… I mean… I'm not sure…"
"It is all right, Daavid," she says, picking up the laughter again and playfully slipping a hand down his shorts. "You zhink zhat perhaps you would not be able to write if I was here all zhe time."
"I know I wouldn't be able to write," he says forcefully as he removes her hand.
The day has started to wear thin for Trina in Vancouver by mid-afternoon. Every visit to the basement suite has left her more frustrated. Rick is anticipating a guest-free dinner in a couple of hours, and Trina is beginning to panic as she sits at her computer compiling a profile of Janet Thurgood, if that is her name, attempting to follow the investigative procedures laid out in a manual for private investigators she bought when she first dreamed of becoming a detective. However, the relevant chapter assumes the reader wishes to trace someone reported as missing and not the opposite. Trina has already tried all the hospitals and hostels without success. Mike Phillips phoned back at midday to say that no one matching Janet's description seems to be missing or on the run, though he again warned Trina to be wary.
"Motive for disappearance," she types once she has listed Janet's physical features, and she finds herself immediately stumped.
"Motive," she begins again, pauses blankly, then seeks guidance from the manual. "There are numerous possible motives for voluntary disappearance," it reads, "but most fall into just three categories: indebtedness, criminal conduct of some type, and domestic relationships."
"Useless," she mutters, realizing that she has no knowledge of Janet's past, then she perks up with an idea and types.
"Motive for disappearance… In search of salvation."
"There," says Trina, satisfied that she is on the right track, and she is headed back to the basement for another try when Raven calls.
"Sorry. I would have called earlier but I only just got your message," says the professed seer and channel, and Trina can't help taking a shot.
"You're supposed to be psychic. I thought you would have known I needed you," she complains, then goes on to explain her predicament before Raven has a chance to protest.
"We all live in boxes — spheres, really," suggests Raven once she's had a moment's consideration. "We're surrounded by people and things that are familiar to us. Sometimes we're forced to move into a new box but we don't want to leave the security of the old one. Maybe she's just slipped back into her old box, the last time she really felt secure, and