by L. R. Wright
“You know Charlie pretty well, do you?”
“Yeah. Pretty well. We grew up in the same neighborhood.”
“Did he confide in you?”
“You mean, did he tell me he was leaving Emma?” She was shaking her head. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Were you close?”
“Uh uh,” she said, shaking her head again. “He was my oldest brother’s friend. And when my brother died in a car crash, about six years ago, Charlie got into the habit of calling me up now and then.”
“Tell me about him.”
“Tell you what?”
“Anything. Whatever comes to your mind.”
“What’s the point of this, anyway?” she said impatiently, lighting a cigarette.
“I want to get to know him.”
“Yeah, but okay, so you get to know him, so you…detect, or whatever you do, and hey, maybe you even find him. Then what? He’ll just disappear again, I bet.”
Alberg looked at her thoughtfully. “You’ve got a point. But I’m looking for him, anyway.”
She dropped her lighter on the table next to the ashtray. “Okay, okay. I told Emma I’d cooperate. So I’ll cooperate.”
Charlie O’Brea was an only child, Alberg learned, the son of an architect who had died before Charlie got into his teens. His mother kept herself busy with an eclectic assortment of activities, including the Conservative party. “My parents were Liberals,” Lorraine McAllister told Alberg, “and they used to hate to see her marching up the walk at election time. But between elections my mom and Mrs. O’Brea were quite friendly—mostly because of Charlie and my brother Simon being friends.
“Okay, so anyway, we used to have this open house on Boxing Day. And this one year—I was about twelve—I remember my mother was looking over the buffet table, making sure there was enough food and stuff there, and Mrs. O’Brea came up and started talking to her about Charlie. And she told Mom that Charlie had a girlfriend. ‘And I think this time it’s serious, Myrna,’ she tells my mom. And it turns out she’s right. This woman—Joan, her name was—she ends up marrying Charlie, a year later.”
“Wait a minute.”
“Emma didn’t tell you Charlie was divorced?”
“Emma didn’t tell me that, no,” said Alberg, and Lorraine laughed.
“That’s typical of Emma. What you don’t think about doesn’t exist. She’s probably forgotten all about her. Seriously.” She took another drink. “Okay, like I said, her name was Joan. I forget her last name. She was a doctor. Well, is, I guess. Mrs. O’Brea didn’t know how to take that, exactly. Pretty nontraditional, for Charlie O’Brea’s mom, to have a daughter-in-law who’s a doctor. It didn’t last long, though. They were divorced about the time I graduated from high school, so that’s—let’s see—no more than five or six years they were married.”
“Do you know why they got divorced?”
“Nope.”
“Any kids?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. What then?”
“I didn’t see Charlie again for ages. Years. I was at UBC, in fourth-year education, when I ran into him in the Student Union Building. He used to have a little business—he redid people’s furniture for them, you know? People would bring him in old stuff, and he’d strip the wood bare and refinish it. He always liked working with his hands, Charlie did. Anyhow, so he got pretty depressed when his marriage broke up, I guess, and his mother was after him to go back to school, and finally he went. I don’t think he wanted to, really. But it was something different to do. And it got his mother off his back.”
“Did you know his mother well?”
“I didn’t like her much. Never wanted to get to know her well.”
“Why didn’t you like her?”
“Oh, she was kinda pushy. And she gossiped a lot. Nothing serious.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “She moved to the States a few years ago. California, I think. Someplace warm, anyway.”
“Okay, go on. You ran into Charlie when he went back to university, right?”
“Right. He was in the MBA program, of all things. And I ended up introducing him to Emma. I guess that’s why he figured he could complain to me about her later.”
“What did he complain about?”
“Oh, Charlie’s a wimp,” said Lorraine impatiently, getting another cigarette out of the package. “He got exactly what he said he wanted, and then he found out he didn’t want it after all, and so he complained all the time. Finally I told him to take his damn whining somewhere else.” She grinned and lit the cigarette. “It worked too. Haven’t heard from him now in more than a year.”
“What did he get that he decided he didn’t want after all?”
“You know that song ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’? Well, that’s what he got. In spades.”
Alberg thought about the living room in Emma’s house, in which he could sense nobody’s presence. He remembered the rage in Emma’s face that day at the Sokolowskis’, when she’d watched him kissing Cassandra.
“Why didn’t she want to live in Sechelt?” he asked.
“Emma doesn’t like small towns. She doesn’t like boats, or fishing, or camping. Why the hell would she want to live on the Sunshine Coast?”
“But Charlie did.”
“Yeah. He loved it over there.”
“I didn’t see any fishing gear. Or camping stuff. No boat.”
“Oh, they had all that, once. He persuaded her to try it. Didn’t work, though. So he sold it all. To Emma’s great relief.” She got up, cigarette in her mouth, squinting against the smoke, and took the overflowing ashtray into the kitchen to empty it. Then she sat down again.
“If he could afford to go anywhere in the world,” said Alberg, “where do you think Charlie would go?”
She meditated on this for a couple of minutes. “You know, that’s the sad part of it. For Charlie. He loved being right where he was. And in order to get Emma out of his life, he has to give it up.” She looked at Alberg. “I don’t have any idea where he’d go.”
Alberg closed his notebook and got to his feet. “Thanks for talking to me, I appreciate it.”
“It’s okay. You’re not so bad, for a cop.”
At the door, Alberg turned. “I still don’t understand why he didn’t just ask her for a divorce.”
“He probably did. But she’d never have given him one. Emma would never have let Charlie divorce her.”
“But why?”
She held her cigarette behind her, so the smoke wouldn’t drift into his face. “It would have meant she’d failed. Emma hates to fail.”
“Maybe it would have meant Charlie had failed. Or both of them together.”
“Yeah,” said Lorraine, nodding. “But there’s no way Emma would see it that way.”
***
Back in his car, Alberg contemplated heading out to the airport with Charlie’s photo. But that would be a waste of time, he decided, without checking around first, finding out who was driving cabs and limos that day. He glanced at his watch. Too late to start digging into Charlie’s first marriage.
So he went home. He’d drop in to see Emma, give her hell about not mentioning Joan-the-doctor. And try to find out how many other things she wasn’t revealing.
But by the time he got back to Gibsons, he was too tired to drive on to Sechelt. So he sat down at the phone with another handful of business cards.
An hour later, he got lucky.
“Coastal Flying.”
“Brad Watson, please,” said Alberg.
“You got him.”
“My name is Karl Alberg, Mr. Watson. I’m trying to locate a Charles O’Brea. I’ve got one of your business cards here. Do you—”
“Charlie? Do I know Charlie O’Brea? Hell, yes. What do you mean, you’re trying to locate him?”
36
“MOTHER, I don’t want to discuss it here.”
“You’re the one who brought it up, Cassandra.” Mrs. Mitchell took a pink dress from the rack
and held it up to the light.
“I didn’t bring it up in here.”
“They don’t make clothes for women my age anymore. You brought it up on the way over here, and you knew this is where we were coming. What do you think?”
“I think it’s a perfectly fine dress.”
“Maybe they never did make dresses for women my age. After all, I never looked for them before I got to this age.” She replaced the pink dress and pushed hangers aside, looking critically at another dress, then another. “Once burned, twice shy. I guess that’s his reasoning, is it?”
“How about this?” Cassandra held up a pair of walking shorts.
Her mother glanced at them. “Don’t be ridiculous. His first marriage didn’t work out, and he’s afraid to try again. That’s it, isn’t it?” She shook her head reproachfully. “You can do better, Cassandra.”
“I told you, Mother, it’s my idea. Not his.”
“How’re you doing there, Helen?” said the owner of the dress shop, approaching with a smile. She was a tall, buxom woman with jet-black hair and extremely long fingernails. “Can I help you find something?”
“Thank you, Margaret, but I’m just browsing.”
“Well, you just let me know if you need anything.”
Cassandra watched as her mother flicked her way through several racks of clothing. She had decided it would be wise to have this conversation in public, where her mother couldn’t make too much of it. But it was occurring to her now that if she’d broken the news in the privacy of her mother’s apartment, she’d at least be able to leave when she felt like it.
“I can’t concentrate on this,” said Mrs. Mitchell abruptly. “My mind’s wandering like a stray dog. Let’s go have some tea.”
They crossed the street and entered a small café that Mrs. Mitchell favored because of its white tablecloths. She chose a table by the window and ordered tea and scones.
“I wish you didn’t disapprove of practically everything I do,” said Cassandra.
“Don’t bother to tell me what you do,” said her mother crossly, “if you aren’t interested in getting my honest opinion.”
“You’re my mother,” said Cassandra. “What am I going to do, let you find out from somebody else?”
“The whole town’s going to be talking about this, that’s for sure.”
“I doubt it. It’s not a big deal, Mother.”
Mrs. Mitchell fixed an unseeing gaze beyond Cassandra, out to the street. She was looking well, despite the pain Cassandra knew she suffered from her arthritis. Her hair was almost completely white now, still worn in a pageboy, with bangs. “I do not understand why you’re doing it,” she said after a minute, shaking her head.
“Oh, God, Mother.” Cassandra rummaged through her handbag, looking for aspirin. “I told you. I don’t know if I want to marry him or not.”
“Oh, I understand that part of it.” Mrs. Mitchell paused while the waitress set down cups and saucers, a small brown teapot, and a plate of hot buttered scones.
“Enjoy,” said the waitress.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “What are you looking for?” she said to Cassandra.
“Aspirin.”
“What I don’t understand is what you think you’re going to find out living with him that you don’t already know.” Mrs. Mitchell leaned closer and lowered her voice. “You two must have—you know—slept together by now. Haven’t you?”
Cassandra set down her water glass and felt herself flush. “It’s not that.”
Mrs. Mitchell poured a little tea into one of the cups. “Then what is it?”
“Mother, I’ve lived alone for years. It might be too late for me to live with someone else. Aren’t you going to pour that tea?”
“It’s still too weak.”
“I like mine weak.” She reached for the pot and filled her cup. She wouldn’t have anything to eat. She didn’t need it. Fortunately, she wasn’t even hungry.
Mrs. Mitchell stared out the window. Finally she sighed, and picked up half a scone. “I know it’s a commonplace thing now, people living together without benefit of clergy. But it’s a thing I will never get used to.” She began eating. “He lives in Gibsons, doesn’t he? So I won’t see as much of you in the future.”
“You’ll see as much of me as you ever did. I work here, after all,” said Cassandra. Butter had dripped from the scones and was pooling on the plate. “And besides, I want us to live in my house.”
Her mother looked at her in amazement. “That tiny place?”
“It’s not a tiny place. There’s plenty of room in it.”
“How does he feel about it?”
“He’s got a name, Mother,” said Cassandra sharply.
“How does Karl feel about it? Living in your house?”
“He’s a bit—he—he’s thinking about it.” She picked up a scone, put it down again.
“Is his place any bigger?”
“No.”
Her mother examined Cassandra thoughtfully. “I like your hair short like that. And you’ve certainly lost a lot of weight.”
“I’m feeling good these days,” Cassandra confessed.
“It’s steady work, being a policeman,” her mother went on. “And it’s true you aren’t getting any younger.”
“We’re none of us getting any younger, Mom.”
Cassandra picked up the scone again and took a bite.
37
EDDIE’S SISTER, SYLVIA, was a single mum with two little kids, a boy and a girl, who were five and four and looked a lot alike. She cut their hair the same, which Eddie didn’t approve of. He thought boys should look like boys and girls should look like girls, and the way they did their hair had a lot to do with this. Sylvia was too casual about stuff like that. She parted their hair on the side and cut them bangs and then evened it up around the bottom, just below their ears. They looked like twins. People on the street always figured they were twins. And usually people thought they were the same sex too. So whenever Eddie took them anywhere, he always put a barrette in Edith’s hair and messed up Willie’s. Willie was named after the prince who would be king of England one day. Eddie didn’t know who Edith was named after.
Sylvia was working days this week at the gas station on Tenth where she’d had a job for a couple of years now. She had an arrangement with a friend; she looked after the friend’s kids, and the friend looked after hers. But sometimes this wasn’t possible because they were both working at the same time. Then she had a list of baby-sitters she used, but it turned out they were all busy doing something else today, so she’d asked Eddie to pitch in. She hardly ever asked him to help out, but he didn’t mind it when she did. She’d done a lot for him in his life, Sylvia had, and besides, he kind of liked her kids. Well, no, he actually loved her kids.
He tried to find a skirt for Edith to wear, but she didn’t seem to have any. “Edith,” he called out from inside the kids’ closet, “where are your skirts?”
Edith just laughed.
So he left her in her jeans, but he found the orange barrette he’d brought one day about a month ago and stuck that in her hair, and then he took the kids by the hand and walked down to the end of Sylvia’s block to a Big Scoop and bought them an ice cream sundae. They thought this was pretty exciting, in the middle of the morning.
“How about going for a little walk, fellas?” he said when they were back out on the street.
“Okay,” said Willie.
Edith let go of his hand and ran a few steps ahead. “Where to? Where to?”
“Only a little ways,” said Eddie, “because then we’ve gotta get back and make us some lunch.” He’d found that the best way to entertain Sylvia’s kids was to keep them eating all the time.
“What are we having? What are we having?” said Edith, hopping backward down the street in front of him.
“Come on back here, hold my hand,” said Eddie sternly.
“Can we have Chef Boyardee?” said Edith.
; “We don’t got any,” said Willie.
“Can we get some?” said Edith.
“You get over here and hold on to my hand,” said Eddie, “and then maybe we’ll go to the store and get some Chef Boyardee. Otherwise you are outa luck, Edith.”
Edith slipped her hand into his and skipped along next to him. He steered the kids around the next corner; it was in his mind to wander past Melanie’s house, a few blocks away.
He couldn’t spend any more time doing surveillance because even in an indifferent neighborhood like that one, somebody was going to notice if the same guy was there every day. He had to get busy and take action, he knew that. But he was having a hard time working up his nerve. He longed to confer again with Gardiner—except that he was reluctant to face more of Gardiner’s impatient contempt for the way he, Eddie, was handling things.
He’d looked her up in the phone book, because she hadn’t been—that is, the accident only happened ten days ago, and so she’d still be in it, and she was. And he started phoning every so often, like several times a day, to make sure the girls were still there. He’d been sorely tempted sometimes when they answered just to blurt it out. “Where’s the box?” he might say, and who knows, they might blurt out where it was right back to him. But he never did this, naturally. He just listened. “Hello? Hello?” And then they’d hang up. After he’d phoned a few times, they started swearing at him, though they didn’t know who they were swearing at, and then after that he just got the stupid answering machine, so he stopped phoning then.
“Where are we going?” said Willie, sounding worried.
“Just to the end of this block,” said Eddie. He’d herded them across the street, and now they were approaching the house on the opposite sidewalk. The old gray Reliant was parked out in front, wedged between a Honda Civic and a Ford pickup, and the Reliant’s roof rack was piled with luggage.
“Come on, Eddie,” said Edith, pulling at his hand. “Hurry up, you slowpoke, you.”
The dark-haired roommate burst through the hole in the hedge, carrying a carton that had printed on the top, in big red letters, MELANIE. She was followed by the other two girls, and each of them had a box marked MELANIE too.