They did all the things that hadn’t interested Peter earlier. They saw the changing of the guard; they visited some little boutiques, the kinds of stores Peter never went into in Toronto; and they ended up by ambling through the dinosaur gallery at the Canadian Museum of Nature, marveling at the skeletons.

It was just like being alive, thought Peter. Just like the way it used to be.

The Museum of Nature was, appropriately enough, on a large, well-treed lot. By the time they left the museum, it was around five o’clock and getting dark. There was a cool breeze. The sky was cloudless. They walked across the grounds until they came to some park benches beneath a stand of huge maple trees, now, in early December, devoid of their leaves.

“I’m exhausted,” Peter said. “I got up at five thirty this morning to get the flight here.”

Becky sat down at the far end of the park bench. “Lie down,” she said. “We’ve been walking all afternoon.”

Peter’s first thought was to resist the notion, but then he decided, why the hell not? He was just about to stretch out on the remaining part of the bench when Becky spoke. “You can use my lap as a pillow.”

He did just that. She was wonderfully soft and warm and human. He looked up at her. She placed an arm gently across his chest.

It was so relaxing, so soothing. Peter thought he could stay here for hours. He didn’t even notice the cold.

Becky smiled down at him, an unconditional smile, an accepting smile, a beautiful smile.

For the first time since lunch, Peter thought about Cathy and Hans and what his life had become back in Toronto.

He realized, too, that he’d finally found a real human being — not some computer-generated simulacrum — that he could talk to about it. Someone who wouldn’t think him a lesser man because his wife had strayed, someone who wouldn’t ridicule him, wouldn’t mock him. Someone who accepted him, who would just listen, who would understand.

And in that moment Peter realized that he didn’t have to talk to anyone about it. He could deal with it now. All his questions were answered.

Peter had met Becky when they were both in their first year at U of T, before Cathy had arrived on the scene. There had been an awkward attraction between them. They were both inexperienced and he, at least, had been a virgin at the time. Now, though, two decades later, things were different. Becky had married and divorced; Peter had married. They knew about sex, about how it was done, about when it happened, when the time was right. Peter realized that he could easily call Cathy, tell her that his meeting had gone overtime and that he was going to spend the night here, tell her that he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. And then he and Becky could go back to her place.

He could do that, but he wasn’t going to. He had the answer to his unasked question now. Given the same opportunity as Cathy had, he would not cheat, would not betray, would not get even.

Peter beamed up at Becky. He could feel the wounds inside him starting to heal.

“You’re a wonderful person,” he said to her. “Some guy is going to be very lucky to be yours.”

She smiled.

Peter exhaled, letting everything go, everything flow out of him. “I’ve got to get to the airport,” he said.

Becky nodded and smiled again, perhaps, just perhaps, a bit ruefully.

Peter was ready to go home.

CHAPTER 35

Sandra drove down the Don Valley Parkway to Cabbagetown, parking outside the very first Food Food store at the corner of Parliament and Wellesley. According to directory assistance, the centralized order-processing facility was located upstairs from this store. Sandra walked up the steep flight of steps and, without knocking, simply entered the room. There were two dozen people wearing telephone headsets sitting in front of computer terminals. They all seemed to be busy taking orders, even though it was only two in the afternoon.

A middle-aged woman with steel blond hair came up to Sandra. “Can I help you?”

Sandra flashed her badge and introduced herself. “And who are you?”

“Danielle Nadas,” the blond woman said. “I’m the supervisor here.”

Sandra looked around, fascinated. She’d ordered from Food Food many times herself since her divorce, but hadn’t really had any mental picture of what was at the other end of the telephone line — over videophones, all you saw were visual ads for Food Food specials. Finally, she said, “I’d like to see the records for one of your customers.”

“Do you know the phone number?”

Sandra started to sing: “Nine-six-seven…”

Nadas smiled. “Not our phone number. The customer’s phone number.”

Sandra handed her a slip of paper with it written on it. Nadas went over to a terminal and tapped the young man who was operating it on the shoulder. He nodded, finished taking the order he was currently processing, then got out of the way. The supervisor sat down and typed in the phone number. “Here it is,” she said, leaning to one side so that Sandra could clearly see the screen.

Rod Churchill had ordered the same meal the last six Wednesdays in a row — except…

“He had low-calorie gravy every time but the most recent,” said Sandra. “For the most recent, it shows regular gravy.”

The supervisor leaned in. “So it does.” She grinned. “Well, our low-cal stuff is pretty vile, if you ask me. It’s not even real gravy — it’s made from vegetable gelatin. Maybe he just decided to try the regular.”

“Or maybe one of your order takers made a mistake.”

The supervisor shook her head. “Not possible. We always assume the person wants the same thing they ordered last time — nine times out of ten, that’s the case. The CSR wouldn’t have rekeyboarded the order unless there was a specific change.”

“CSR?”

“Customer Service Representative.”

Ho boy, thought Sandra.

“If there’d been no change,” said Nadas, “the CSR would have just hit F2 — that’s our key for ‘repeat order’.”

“Can you tell who processed his most-recent order?”

“Sure.” She pointed to a field on the screen. “CSR 054 — that’s Annie Delano.”

“Is she here?” asked Sandra.

The supervisor looked around the room. “That’s her over there — the one with the ponytail.”

“I’d like to talk to her,” said Sandra.

“I can’t see what difference all this makes,” said the supervisor.

“The difference,” said Sandra coolly, “is that the man who ordered that meal died from a reaction to the food he ate.”

The supervisor covered her mouth. “Oh my God,” she said. “I — I should call my boss.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Sandra. “I just want to speak to that young lady over there.”

“Of course. Of course.” The supervisor led the way over to where Annie Delano was working. She looked to be about seventeen. She’d obviously just received a repeat order, and had done exactly what the supervisor said she would do — tap the F2 key.

“Annie,” said Nadas, “this woman is a police officer. She’d like to ask you some questions.” Annie looked up, eyes wide.

“Ms. Delano,” said Sandra, “last Wednesday night, you processed an order from a man named Rod Churchill for a roast beef dinner.”

“If you say so, ma’am,” Annie said.

Sandra turned to the supervisor. “Bring it up on screen.”

The supervisor leaned in and tapped out Churchill’s phone number.

Annie looked at the screen, her expression blank. “You changed his regular order,” Sandra said. “He always had low-calorie gravy before, but last time you gave him regular gravy.”

“I’d only have done that if that’s what he asked for,” said Annie.

“Do you recall him asking for a change?” Annie looked at the screen.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t recall anything about that order at all. I do over two hundred orders a day, and that was a week ago. But, honest, I wouldn’t have made the change unless he asked for it.”