April: Sweetland

By Jan Fancy Hull

What's the difference between a delver and a private detective? Tim Brown is about to try to find out, as a challenge lands on his desk. It's the reverse of a locked-room puzzle, since not just a room but a whole building seems to have disappeared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moose House Publications
• Release date: May 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781990187681

Jan Fancy Hull

Jan Fancy Hull lives in a log chalet beside a quiet lake in Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia, where she has written non-fiction, award-winning poetry, short stories, and novels. In former lives, she worked as a radio broadcaster, arts administrator, sailing tours skipper, and employee benefits broker. During the winter, Jan watches snowflakes fall as she writes. In warm months, she carves Nova Scotia sandstone into sculptures. She enjoys the occasional round of golf, and drifting on the lake in her little boat, which she claims is a great place to edit.In 2022, Jan received the Rita Joe Poetry Prize for her poem, "Moss Meditations."

Book preview

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© 2023 Jan Fancy Hull

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover design: Rebekah Wetmore

Editor: Andrew Wetmore

ISBN: 978-1-990187-67-4

First edition May, 2023

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2475 Perotte Road

Annapolis County, NS

B0S 1A0

moosehousepress.com

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We live and work in Mi’kma’ki, the ancestral and unceded territory of the Mi’kmaw people. This territory is covered by the Treaties of Peace and Friendship which Mi’kmaw and Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) people first signed with the British Crown in 1725. The treaties did not deal with surrender of lands and resources but in fact recognized Mi’kmaq and Wolastoqiyik (Maliseet) title and established the rules for what was to be an ongoing relationship between nations. We are all Treaty people.

Also by Jan Fancy Hull

Non-fiction

Where’s Home?

Short stories

The Church of Little Bo Peep and other stories

Inquire Within

The Tim Brown Mystery Series

January: Code

February: Curious

March: Enigma

May: Façades (coming in 2023)

NOT A DEDICATION:

To those for whom the forests have value

only when they are all cut clear to the ground:

Stop it.

This is a work of fiction. The author has created the characters, conversations, interactions, and events; and any resemblance of any character to any real person is coincidental.

April: Sweetland

April 1, 1999: Maundy

April 2: Practise

April 3: Budino

April 4: Easter

April 5: Empathy

April 6: Old ladies

April 7: Remembering

April 8: Breadbox

April 9: Delving School

April 10: Bunkie

April 11: Interests

April 12: Cowardly Lion

April 13: Saint George

April 14: Research

April 15: Workday

April 16: Maps

April 17: New Ordinary

April 18: Blessings

April 19: Who and Why

April 20: Back to front

April 21: Where

April 22: Earth Day

April 23: Project Sweetland

April 24: Dream come true

April 25: Hope springs

April 26: Friend in low places

April 27: Recognizing

April 28: Bootleggers

April 29: Two Brookses

April 30: Adverse possession

Sneak peek

April 1, 1999: Maundy

Thursday

Tim Brown was well aware that today was April Fool’s Day. Staff at his weekly newspaper, The Times, were avid practical jokers, and while Tim’s mother had always done her best to quell the shenanigans during her reign, her wishes for this occasion were mainly disregarded.

Following her death, Tim was helpless to prevent the playing of jokes—partly because he was one of the perpetrators. The rules were that jokes must not embarrass anyone, damage property, or frighten customers, and that all joking must end at noon sharp.

Because he was on sabbatical from his job as editor at The Times this year, he had been focused on things outside the office, so he hadn’t thought about fools and jokes until right now.

He was extracting his essential morning coffee infusion from Gloria, the Queen of Steam, when he caught up with these thoughts, which brought him to think of Elaine Fong, the interim editor.

This is her first April 1 at the paper. I didn’t warn her!

Quickly, he pressed her direct line on speed dial. He knew she’d be in the office early, as she always was.

Hi, Tim, she answered. You’re too late!

Oh, Elaine, I’m so sorry. I should have warned you, but I’ve been somewhat distracted, thinking of myself. Please forgive me. Did anyone—what have they done to you?

Well, for starters—was she crying?—they somehow took my office door completely off its hinges and—or was she laughing?—and they hooked up—oh, I can’t tell you, you’ll see it when you come in. But watch out, Tim. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

Elaine burst into giggles and hung up—she actually hung up on him!

Tim was usually not happy to be cut off, but he was this time. Oh, that gang. They were treating Elaine as one of their own, as they had always done to him. Teasing is caring.

What a great way to begin a new month—with laughter. Even so, he was just as happy that it was only one half-day of the year when practical joking was widely practised and—mostly, one would hope—forgiven.

He had business to do at the newspaper office today. He considered waiting until after noon, but decided that that would be chicken. If the staff were planning to fool him, he’d let them. If they weren’t, he’d enjoy seeing whatever else was going on. He wasn’t working  there this year, but he’d found that he liked saying hello to staff on the way to his private room on the second floor. And sometimes he did have business with them, as the newspaper’s staff had skills that came in handy for his own assorted projects.

Today was also Thursday, and the capital A marked on the Thursdays in his calendar indicated the arrival of Mrs Aquino, his thorough and dour housekeeper. He hadn’t really noticed her methods in previous years because he’d been at work twelve hours every day. He’d stayed home just one Thursday in January, but quickly learned that he couldn’t concentrate while her vacuum cleaner ran incessantly, front and back doors were propped open in the frigid winter air, and dishwasher, clothes washer, and clothes dryer all whirred and hissed. He appreciated the results of her labours, and knew she would never change her ways. 

So Thursdays were his Day Out, beginning with breakfast at the Daisy Café.

As soon as Mrs A arrived, he wished her a Happy Easter, put a flask of coffee and a sandwich in his backpack, and drove downtown. He didn’t dare prank her.

~

Good morning, Tim. Your booth’s all ready for ya. Be right over. Evelyn was the Daisy’s long-time waitress, the reason Tim chose to eat breakfast there despite the coffee, which he described as bad since 1967.

He slung his backpack across the seat and slid in as he had done for years—but perhaps not on April Fool’s Day. The vinyl seat had been waxed and buffed to a fare-thee-well, so his slide put most of him under the table, from where he struggled to regain his usual composure.

From the back of the diner, he heard Evelyn’s gale-force laughter, and knew he’d been pranked. She came quickly to help him extract his long body from beneath the table. You okay, Tim? You havin’ trouble sittin’ up today? Here, let me help you.

Seems I do! You got me good, Evelyn…if you didn’t break my neck! April first is a dangerous day.

It is around me! I love a joke, and I figured you’d be good for it. You okay, now?

Yeah, of course. He was leaning on his elbows to prevent slipping again. Say, did you wax both sides of the booth? Would it be safe for me to sit on the other side?

Sure, go ahead. Did you come in just so I could embarrass you, or can I get you some breakfast?

He ordered scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, then moved to the other bench, testing the seat’s grip with his backpack first. It seemed sticky as usual, safe enough.

Evelyn returned with his breakfast—a single piece of dry toast, burned black, and a mug of hot water.

Just the way I like it, he called as she dashed away, giggling.

She soon brought his real order and took away the Fool’s breakfast, laughing as she served it to another unsuspecting customer. It was fun, despite the slight twinge in his back from the prank. He’d strained his back in February, but massage therapy had made it feel a whole lot better. He didn’t want his back to hurt, but he wouldn’t hesitate to return to Melanie, his wonderful therapist, for her to fix it again, either.

He had known Evelyn forever, but they had become real friends only recently, and he took this special attention as a sign of their friendship, maybe even affection.

She came by with hot coffee, and a soapy sponge. I’d better get rid of this polish before somebody gets killed. It worked way better than I thought it would. You just swung in here and—whoosh—down you went! She laughed, and Tim joined in.

He’d enjoyed coming in here every Thursday morning since mid-January, but this was the first time he’d laughed. It wasn’t just Evelyn’s burnt toast. He felt light. He’d been carrying some heavy burdens for much of his life, and recently he’d sorted them out, let some go, and reconciled with others.

He left cash on the table for his breakfast, and then went to the cash register. He counted out hundreds of dollars in play money, told Evelyn to keep the change, and left, her laughter following him out the door.

~

The offices of The Times were buzzing. Jokes were playing out as staff arrived, and some jokers had quite a repertoire. By decree, April Fool jokes at The Times were meant to strain credulity, not a man’s back. 

In years when April 1 coincided with a publication day, most of the work went into fooling the public with a plausible fake story in the paper. With no such focus today, the staff had turned inward. The morning was lawless.

Rachael the receptionist was amusing herself by answering the telephone in a variety of voices. Tim heard her excellent impersonation of Marilyn Monroe as he passed by, and gave her a thumbs-up. He learned later that no fewer than five fires had been called in, all about his own building, and likely coming from inside it.

Elaine’s office door seemed the same as usual. She beckoned to him through the window so he grasped the knob and turned. The knob was wired to a klaxon horn right above his head, which he hadn’t noticed, but he surely did now. He pushed to open the door, but it began to fall slowly toward him, held up by unseen restraints. Whoever had invented this prank knew that it was human nature to grasp the door knob even harder. It didn’t keep the door from tipping, but it did keep the horn blowing.

By the time Tim arrived post-breakfast, most of the staff had already been victims of, or witnesses to, the Great Door Trick, so they were all primed to watch Mister Brown succumb to the very clever catastrophe. The office enjoyed this spectacle immensely. There were calls of Aw, do we have to? when Elaine—still laughing—decreed that she would work without any door if necessary, but this one had to be dismantled now, before someone got hurt.

John, the caretaker, and Harold, who floated between archives and bookkeeping, appeared with screwdrivers to disable the horn and re-hang the door.

Tim made the rounds of the desks, handing out Easter bonuses, which were more of the play money he’d found in a drawer at home. As he worked his way toward the back stairs, he heard a chorus of April Fool. You weren’t pranked if you called it.

He was glad that there were two doors between these hi-jinks and his room, one at the bottom of the stairs and one at the room, and that he had the only keys. This ensured that his room remained private and, even though there was nothing on his walls today, no lists, no sketches, no hunches, he would’ve been dismayed if someone coming in to play a good-natured trick had seen his work, whether they understood it or not.

He sat at the table and took his phone book from the backpack. He hoped to see a friend and settle a debt next week, and this call would start that ball rolling.

He found the name and pressed the numbers on his cell-phone, checking the signal as he waited for the call to go through. Just three bars. Here’s hoping they hold.

Evan Robicheau. That’s how they answered phones in the city. To the point.

Evan, it’s Tim Brown. Long time! How are you?

Sorry, who? That wasn’t the welcome he was expecting.

Timothy Brown. What’s up, Evan? He was on the verge of losing his cheerful mood.

Oh, Tim. Hi! Great to hear from you. Your phone cut out there for a sec, sorry. Yes, a long time. How long? Last summer? Year before? 

That was better. Darn cell-phone signal. Yeah, something like that. Too long.

Well, let’s fix that. I’m up to my eyeballs right now, though. Are you calling to shoot the breeze, or is there something specific?

Both, Evan. But I hoped we could deal with everything at lunch. Got any time next week?

Oh boy, short notice…hey, look, Tuesday’s open. How’d that happen?

I’ll grab it. Tuesday’s perfect. What time and where?

They settled the details and disconnected.

Tim stood up to contain his elation. Sure, he liked Evan and sure, he wanted to accomplish the task he would bring up with him; but right at this moment he wanted to acknowledge a small victory. He had called Evan without spending agonizing hours strategizing over what to say. He’d just hit the numbers and said his piece. Woo-hoo!

This was just a normal thing, making a phone call, but it hadn’t been normal for Tim. One of the signals that he’d needed to take a year off to get a grip was his growing need to strategize every move he made. He seemed to expect objections at every turn, and it had made him increasingly anxious.

He had explored the sources of his hesitations last month, and had found that many of his thoughts were inherited, not his own. It must have done some good, because look at me now! I can make a telephone call just like snap—as long as the darn signal doesn’t cut out on me.

He didn’t have to prepare for the call, but he did need to prepare for the encounter on Tuesday. He clattered down the narrow steps to the newspaper office, which had quieted considerably as noon approached.

James Olsen, a reporter-photographer, was in his cubicle, feet on his desk. The feet came down quickly as Tim rounded the corner.

Morning, James.

Hey, Mister Brown. Gee, I was just—

I know. You were just wishing for a good story to work on. Perhaps you should be out looking instead of in here wishing? But I’m here on another matter. Do you have those photos of my storm doors, old and new?

Right here, Mister Brown. Are these okay?

James had labelled the photos Before and After on the sheet, along with Tim’s name and address.

They’re very okay, James, thank you. These make my case, no explanation necessary, other than why some delivery doofus threw a newspaper so hard at my door in the first place. Any thoughts on that matter?

Nope, no thoughts at all about that. Somebody with a grudge?

Possibly, but with me, though? How would a newspaper delivery guy or gal have a grudge with me? I send a goodish tip at Christmas, and otherwise I never lay eyes on whoever it is. I’m asleep when they deliver it. If I'd been awake, they might have had a complaint, because I would’ve yelled at them for tossing the papers into the shrubbery every darn day before that. Grrr! Don’t get me started. I was having a good day.

Keep it up, Mister Brown. Your good day, I mean. I hope those pictures will help.

~

Ever since the snow banks had begun to shrink, Tim had been taking short walks. Snow was all gone now, except in some corners of large parking lots where acres of snow had been piled over the winter. April showers would diminish them, and some said that fog ate snow faster than anything.

He walked around downtown South River across the old bridge, along the other side and back across the new bridge. It was an easy walk, so he did two laps. He ended the second lap at the Daisy Café and stepped inside.

He mimed I-Phone-You to Evelyn, and then pointed up to indicate Tonight. When he had done that earlier in the week, she said he’d be no good at Charades, because it looked like the message was that he’d phone her from heaven. This time he held up six fingers to clarify, lifted his eyebrows, and she nodded Yes, with a big smile. Six o’clock.

Then he walked up to the cash counter and waited to speak with her anyway, as he had another question he couldn’t mime.

They’d planned to get together on the weekend, including Robert, of course. There was all day tomorrow, Good Friday, but stores and restaurants would be closed, and Robert would likely want to spend the day at the organ in the church, in preparation for Sunday. Easter Sunday was showtime for Robert: as organist and choir director at South River’s Saint John’s United Church, he would be sharply focused on the service and the small choral concert Sunday afternoon.

Are you free Saturday? I meant to ask earlier, but smoke from the burnt toast clouded my memory. I’ll double-check when Rob arrives at suppertime tonight, but I think he’ll go for something on Saturday.

I work Saturday till three.

Oh, right, I forget that people work. He laughed. We usually eat Italian on Saturday evening, alternating between ordered-in and home-made. This week is my turn to make it. I made killer calzones recently. Do you like them?

I’m sure I do, but are you sure you want company before your big concert? Or we could go out.

You’re not company, Ev, you’re family! We could eat out, and we will sometime, but I am ninety-nine percent certain that Rob will be too fidgety about the concert to sit in a restaurant this Saturday. If we stay home, we can give him a sharp knife to play with and he’ll be happily distracted.

Yikes! I’m easy, Tim. Happy to be invited. What can I bring?

Oh, I dunno, what’s easy? Some befores? Or dessert? You can surprise us. I’ll call you at six to confirm, okay?

~

At the supermarket, Tim picked up chicken for today’s pre-rehearsal supper, salmon for Friday, changed his mind about calzones and planned to make pizza instead for Saturday, and a centre-cut ham for Sunday after the concert. 

Ham was the only dish he was confident to leave in the oven with the timer set. Ham would be all right if it sat a couple hours before the oven came on, and it could stay after the oven shut off without harm. He preferred nearly-blackened edges anyway. 

Robert wouldn’t notice: he’d eat his own fingers after a concert if he wasn’t careful.

Tim took the weekend’s groceries, including a package of garish marshmallow Peeps, and stuffed them in the refrigerator and cupboards at home.

It was a holiday weekend, a high holy day in the church calendar, but Tim was more an observer than a celebrant of it. He sometimes wished he was fervent about Easter, that it would appeal to him. 

But he did love the music, loved singing tenor in the choir, and was very much looking forward to the Easter church service and the concert because of the music Robert had chosen for the choir to sing.

He checked his watch and was startled: visiting hours at the hospital were almost over. His unofficially-adopted aunt Connie lay there in a coma, and he had been going in to visit her in her final days. She had been in that state since the middle of March, had a series of strokes, and had never recovered from them. Her husband, Gregory Barss, known to all at The Times as GB, had been her sole care-giver. She was likely unaware that GB had died mere hours after she had gone to the hospital in the ambulance. The slowing beats of her failing heart were signalling her approaching eternal rest.

Tim dashed back to the car and arrived at the hospital with fifteen minutes to spare.

Hi, Aunt Connie, it’s me, Tim. I got held up in the grocery store, sorry. So, today is April Fool’s Day. Anyone play a joke on you today?

Constance Barss was smaller, thinner, and less present every day he saw her. She seemed like the Cheshire Cat, fading away until nothing would remain but the smile; or, in her case, just nothing.

He didn’t know if she could hear him, or if she was aware of her senses at all. The nurse had said that her hearing should still be okay, though she was lightly sedated.

Today’s Thursday, Maundy Thursday, Aunt Connie. Tomorrow’s Good Friday. I’ll come to see you tomorrow. And Saturday is—I don’t know if it has a special name, but it might be called Easter Egg Shopping Day, since everyone who hasn’t bought candy by then had better get some quick, right? I don’t know how religious you and GB were, but speaking for myself, chocolate bunnies at Easter are quite un-biblical, aren’t they? They’re pagan, actually, but they taste good. I guess the children need to have fun, same as they do with Santa at Christmas, right? Keeps ‘em interested until they’re older, when they can learn the real meaning of the celebration, if they want to, right? He was prattling, finding this one-sided conversation for two somewhat awkward. 

Suddenly, Connie’s eyes opened and she looked straight at him. 

He had seen this once before, and had run to the nursing station to report it. This time he waited and held her gaze. Am I making sense to you, Aunt Connie? Can you really see me?

The old lady’s eyes lost focus and gradually closed. Perhaps that happened more than once a day. Perhaps she did hear him. Perhaps it was just an involuntary twitch. Or an April fool.

A nurse came to the door to tell him visiting hours were over. He thanked her, bent to kiss the patient on her forehead, and left.

~

Robert inhaled the aroma of stir-fried chicken as he entered the front door. Nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the fry-pan, he said. That’s why I commute here so faithfully, you know.

Tim swatted him with the dish towel, and served their supper. He kept an eye on the clock as they chatted. Evelyn said not to call after six, as she would be in the bath, but Robert wanted to be at the church before six-thirty tonight.

So, Rob, about the weekend. Any thoughts or desires?

Just to have extended practice time with the Casavant. Besides being cavernous, Saint John’s was renowned for its pipe organ. Robert had come to play it in a concert some years ago, which is when he met Tim.

I can grant your wish all day tomorrow. I’ll even make you sandwiches and tea. Does that meet with your approval?

Perfectly. Thank you.

And Saturday? Any wishes?

Can we just keep it on the down-low?

You know what happened the last time you said that: a surprise party with forty guests for my fortieth birthday happened! Are you secretly planning another surprise for this ‘down-low’?

I guarantee that I am not. No guests. I’ll be focused on Sunday morning’s church service and Sunday afternoon’s concert. After that, I will be a dish-rag.

Tim hoped he was steering the conversation in the right direction. Okay, no guests. Is Evelyn included in that?

Robert brightened. "Evelyn? She’s not ‘guests’! She’s family—or that’s how I think of her. Can