The Master of Happy Endings
possibly five or six metres and crowned at the peak with a large hand-lettered cardboard sign spelling “Bo” with red paint. If he hadn’t known that Hammond’s body was still somewhere in the sea he might have believed it was in that pile, awaiting the flames. He felt a surge of indignation on Hammond’s behalf. What sort of people created a memorial out of the scraps and rubbish they’d been too lazy to burn or haul away?
    In front of the sprawling main house, two canvas tents had been set up, and several tables, covered with what looked like the sort of items you found at yard sales. Boxes of magazines, he imagined, and machine parts. He’d been to enough sales of this sort with Elena to be fairly certain there would be plants, bottles, cakes, loaves of bread, leather belts, hand-painted cards, lamps make from twisted driftwood off the beach, velvet paintings, stacks of old National Geographic , and books dedicated to the art of seeing the future in crystals, tea leaves, palms, and lizards tossed into a campfire.
    The booths appeared to have been set down at random, without any thought of creating rows. Since the forest floor was a natural mess it was not surprising that those who lived within the forest should follow suit. The few customers working their way through their hodgepodge of tables may have come off the ferry but they might also have walked up one or another of the trails from the shacks or trailers or houseboats few had ever seen— the invisible islanders rumoured to be living in hidden bays in order to write a screenplay, plan a takeover of a rival company, receive shipments of Colombian cocaine, or honeymoon far from paparazzi interested in minor royalty.
    Someone approached him from behind, feet swishing through the young alder, twigs cracking underfoot. “You timed out for misbehaving?”
    When she’d come up beside him he saw that this was Gwendolyn Something from the Free Exchange, the young mother of the six indigenous flowers.
    â€œJust waiting till I see someone I recognize.”
    â€œWell, you should recognize me, after all the time you spent pawing through Hammond’s books.”
    She had Susan Hayward’s slightly turned-up nose and tiny waist. She may have been aware of this herself—she always wore dresses with tight waists and loose gathered skirts to the knees. And white high-heeled shoes, even here in the bush.
    â€œWhat will they do with that pyramid, do you think?”
    â€œGoodness knows,” she said. “You can’t expect this bunch to follow through with anything. They’ll wake up tomorrow and wonder how the damn thing got there!” Her laugh had little humour in it. “Their brains went up in pot smoke long ago.” She was so pleased with this that she put a hand on Axel Thorstad’s shoulder while she wheezed. She had never even said hello in the Free Exchange.
    â€œWell, I better get a move on,” she said. “I was back in the bush for a pee. No way am I going anywhere near their toilet.”
    She paused after just a few steps through the tangled twigs and clumps of grass. “You’re going to sit there like a bump on that log, aren’t you?”
    There was no point in getting indignant. Staying here was exactly what he’d prefer. “I can think about poor Hammond better here than down amongst the money-changers.”
    â€œDon’t brood about him . At least he had a life. Travel? Adventure?” This was wistfully said. Gwendolyn Something was envious?
    â€œBut murdered.”
    She might not have heard this. “At least he did some good while he was out there in the world.”
    â€œNot everyone would think laundering drug money was doing good.”
    She shrugged, as though indifferent to such fine distinctions. “There are poor people out there grateful he risked his life skimming off the top for them while he could. That’s what I heard, anyway.

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