A Family Matter

by Chris Laing

  He continued on toward the bay another hundred yards then he followed the tire-tracks into the driveway and pulled in behind a tired 1930’s Dodge with a broken tail light. It was parked beside a small bungalow, yellowed strips of paint peeling off its wood siding and I noticed the curtain over the living room window twitching.

  I left Dave in the cab and made my way up the cleared path to the door. I had to tug my overcoat tighter against the brisk wind sweeping in off the Bay. I was about to knock when the door was opened by a young woman with a fingertip to her lips. Her hair was done up in curlers covered by a red bandana with white polka dots.

  “Shhh, baby’s finally gone to sleep.” Then she waved me in and closed the door quietly, waiting for me to speak my piece.

  I stood on the black rubber floor mat, introduced myself, and passed her one of my cards. “I’m looking into a matter on behalf of the Humane Society. I wonder if you might’ve heard anything about organized dog fights in this neighbourhood.”

  She took a step back, inspecting me from head to toe and I must have passed muster because she pointed my card toward the rear of the house. “We can talk in the kitchen.”

  I stepped out of my toe rubbers and slipped off my coat, then followed her through a small, dim living room: a faded red chesterfield and matching chair faced the window where the curtain remained closed; covering the floor was a worn-out square of linoleum curling at its edges. In one corner a black coal stove was working overtime, its exhaust pipe vented through the ceiling. In the opposite corner stood a four-foot Christmas tree trimmed with candy canes and home-made decorations, a tin-foil star on top.

  I followed her into the kitchen where a young girl with pig-tails knelt on her chair at the wooden table colouring intently in a picture-book, the tip of her tongue almost touching her nose. The room was neat and clean: ice box in the corner, stove and sink against the far wall. A curling photo of last month’s Royal Wedding had been clipped from the newspaper and pinned on the wall beside the telephone.

  “My name is Gillian Robertson.” She spoke with a British accent which I hadn’t detected while she was whispering at the front door. “We haven’t lived here long so I’m afraid I don’t know the neighbours well. But sit down and we can chat a bit.”

  “I couldn’t help noticing your accent – are you a war-bride?”

  I caught a twitch at the corner of her mouth as she looked me in the eye. “That’s funny – I thought you spoke like a Yank.”

  I smiled back and thought we might be off to a good start.

  When I sat beside the girl, I pointed at her picture of Santa and his reindeer. “Looks like you’re an expert with those crayons, Little Lady. What’s your name?”

  She darted her eyes at her mother, who nodded. “Nancy. I’m five years old. And I’m going to school next year.”

  Her mother placed the crayons back in their box and smoothed the girl’s unruly hair, “Finish your picture in your room, Lovey. I have to speak to this man for a minute. And don’t wake up your father.”

  The girl scampered away and her mother sat across from me. “Nancy was born in England where I met my hubby, Ben, who was in the RCAF. And the baby, Paula, she was born right here in Hamilton and she’s a little sweetheart. Ben’s on nights now at Dofasco so I try to keep the children’s ruckus down during the day when he’s sleeping.”

  She leaned toward me, getting down to business. “So, you work for the SPCA?”

  “Not directly, no. But I’m here on their behalf. The Society was notified by the police that they’d investigated a complaint from someone along your road involving cruelty to dogs. When I saw that house and outbuilding next door I wondered if that might be the place. Would you know anything about that?”

  She didn’t answer right away but the twitch of her eyes and her pinched mouth told me she knew about it but was reluctant to talk. So I kept my lip firmly buttoned and waited. It was a lesson I’d learned from one of my old instructors in the RCMP – “Just keep your damn trap shut, Dexter,” he’d said. “People will always fill the vacuum – eventually.”

  It took a moment before she spoke. “Yes, I called the police about our next door neighbour. He lives alone there: a grumpy man. I’d guess he’s in his fifties or so and he’s quite … rude. We’ve often heard his dogs barking, usually during the day but sometimes at night, too. When my husband talked to him about it, the man said that’s what dogs do – they bark. And it wasn’t in his power to change Mother Nature.”

  I leaned forward in my chair, the concerned listener with his eyebrows raised.

  “We had a problem about six or seven weeks ago,” she said. “Late one night I heard the dogs making a terrible racket, yelping like I’d never heard before. It woke me up and I could see quite a few cars parked in his long drive, and along the roadside too. Ben was at work so I finally called the police – but when they arrived some time later those cars had already gone. Honestly, it was almost like someone had tipped them off and they all scarpered.”

  “Then what happened?”

  She wagged her head. “The following day I spoke to the sergeant at the station and he said they’d found no evidence of illegal activity. So they gave him a warning to keep the noise down.”

  Her eyes were downcast when she finished speaking.

  “Any more incidents since then?”

  “Well, my husband went over to talk to the man again, his name is Grunchy or some name like that. And he told Ben to mind his own business and if the dogs bothered him so much, maybe he should move.”

  “That seems pretty extreme. What did your husband do?”

  “Well, Ben is a big strong man and so is that neighbour, but they didn’t fight or anything like that. My husband just told him to keep the noise down or we’d call the police.”

  “And then?”

  “We’re not hearing the dogs as much now because we keep the house closed up in this cold weather. But those cars have been back again. I think there might be something going on in that barn building behind his house.”

  She left the table and ran some water into an aluminum kettle. “Cuppa? It’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  “Yes, please.”

  When she returned I asked her, “What about the other neighbours? Are they bothered by these dogs or the owner?”

  “You must have noticed we don’t have many neighbours out here. I guess people don’t want to live this close to the airport. But the rent’s cheap and that’s important because we’re saving up for a place of our own. There’s an old couple lives down toward the bay, past that vacant house between us. They’re nice folks. They’re quiet and keep to themselves and they’ve never mentioned hearing those dogs. There’s another house further down but we don’t know those people. We just moved here about six months ago.”

  “What about in the other direction – toward Main Street?”

  She rose from the table and poured the boiling water into a fat brown teapot. “Well, let’s see. Up at the corner of Dunsmure Road there’s a nice young family, four children; we visited them a few times during the summer – the Kellams. Across the street from them, so they told us, there’s a cranky old woman who’s always chasing the kids off her property when they cut through on their way to school. Mrs. Kellam warned me she’s quite the busybody, listens in on the party line all the time, but I’ve never noticed that. Mind you, I don’t use the phone a lot. And that old woman is related somehow to our neighbour with the dogs. As I said, we haven’t lived here long so that’s all I know about the neighbours.”

  She went on to tell me about her difficult time in England during the war while we drank our tea. When she’d run out of steam, I thanked her for her time and as we shook hands at the doorway she said, “Oh, I almost forgot. We have a newspaper lad who makes the rounds out here. He’s sure to know more about the neighbours than I d
o. Just a minute and I’ll get his name for you.”

  In the kitchen, she riffled through a drawer beside the sink. Then she bustled back to the doorway, waving a Spectator punch card. “His name’s Trevor. There’s his address on Dunsmure and the phone number.”

  I scribbled the information from the card into my notebook. “Do you mind giving me your number, in case I have to follow up about anything?”

  I made a note of it, then put on my coat, hat and rubbers. “Your neighbour could be involved in staging dog-fights and that’s a criminal offence. So if you hear another disturbance next door, or see something unusual, be sure to call the police again.”

  “I will,” she said. “And thanks ever so.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dave had the engine running and the heater on high as I slid in beside him. He was staring straight ahead and I thought he might be upset about my delay.

  “Sorry I was so long, Dave, but the woman was chatty. You were right about the next-door neighbour. He’s keeping dogs in that low building behind his house. And she called the cops about a commotion over there a while ago – cars coming and going late at night, a lot of noise. But by the time they arrived, everyone but the owner had gone.”

  Dave’s eyes were jittery when he finally looked up at me. And when he started to speak his voice croaked so he began again. “Something just happened.”

  “C’mon, Dave. Spit it out – was is it?”

  “Well … while I was waiting, I started to get antsy and got out to look around. I knew you might be a little while so I snuck over to that place next door. I approached from the back so the guy wouldn’t see me if he was home. We didn’t notice his car from the road because his garage is out back there, on the other side of the dog kennels. He’s got a truck, too. So when I came around the corner of the house this big arm reached out and caught me by the throat. Took me completely by surprise, Max. And he damn near strangled me.”

  “Dammit, Dave. I told you that bird might be connected to the Mob. How’d you get away?”

  “I had to talk fast, that’s for damn sure. Told him I was visiting a friend next door and thought I heard dogs barking, sounding they like might need help and it didn’t look like anyone was home. So I was just being a good Samaritan, going to help the dogs.”

  “Oh, jeez. Don’t tell me he fell for that line.”

  “Well, yeah, he did. Damn good thing for me that he’s not too bright. I finally convinced him to let me go and I got back to my cab in double quick time. No harm done, except that I feel like such a dope.”

  I delivered a light punch to his right arm. “I’m glad you didn’t get hurt, Bud. You’ll believe me next time, right?”

  “Roger that.”

  He had the look of a guy who’d just been yanked out of Lake Ontario in sub-zero weather. “I don’t suppose you heard me when I told you about the woman next door calling the cops, etcetera?”

  Dave shook his head. So I repeated her story.

  “Shit. Sounds like he might’ve gotten a warning that the cops were on the way.”

  “Sure does, doesn’t it? Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  I asked Dave to turn right at the corner of Dunsmure, the street where the newspaper carrier lived. He slowed as he turned off Parkdale and I had a good look at the house on the corner belonging to the cranky old lady – it was a two-storey frame building, showing its age, perhaps like its owner. Across the corner of her lot, I made out a footpath tramped into the snow, evidence of the kids’ short-cut to school. I didn’t notice her peeking out from behind her curtains, wondering what a taxicab was doing out here so I guessed she was only a part-time busybody.

  In the next block, we pulled over at the curb. “Sure this is the right number, Max? This place looks way too small for a family.”

  “It’s the address she gave me. But I’ll find out quick enough, won’t I?”

  The walkway had been neatly cleared; a snow shovel and an old broom were propped up beside the front entrance. I rapped on the door. No answer. Rapped again, much harder.

  The door opened a crack and a beady eye gave me the once-over. “What do you want, Mister?”

  That eye was at the level of my neck and the voice had that breaking quality you hear in teenage boys. I smiled to myself, remembering my own embarrassment during that awkward phase.

  I stuck my business card through the small opening and spoke in a hoarse, on-the-sly whisper. “I’m a private eye following up on a case where you deliver newspapers and maybe you can help me. One of your customers told me where you lived. So your name’s Trevor, eh?”

  He snapped the card from my fingers, read it, then flung the door open wide, banging it against the wall. “That’s me, Mister. C’mon in. So you’re hot on the trail of some bad guys, eh?”

  I got a kick out of his enthusiasm and closed the door behind me as I stepped into the living room. The kid was about thirteen or so, as skinny as that broom handle beside the doorway, with a mop of dark hair above his pimply face. I made a quick scan of the room: a couple of old upholstered chairs and an ugly green couch, sagging in the middle like a swayback horse. The carpet had seen better days but the house was clean; someone was making an effort to make the place livable. An ancient radio console dominated one corner, a police siren wailing from its speaker, followed by gunshots. And a smaller boy, about seven or eight, lay on the floor in front of the radio, his chin cradled on his palms, absorbed in today’s spine-tingling episode of Dick Tracy or some other crime buster. He turned toward me as I entered then shot a wary glance at his big brother, who gave him a nod of approval.

  “Your mother or father at home?”

  “Nope, my mum works ‘til six. And my dad … never came back from the war. So there’s just me and my kid brother here. Now what about these bad guys? What did they do? How can I help?”

  “Just hold your horses, Bud. Can we go through to the kitchen and talk?”

  “Sure.”

  I followed him into the kitchen which was also spic and span: an old-style electric range beside the sink and a wooden ice-box against the back wall. I noted with approval that Trevor had closed the kitchen door behind us rather than telling his kid brother to turn down the radio. You can’t listen properly to cops and robbers at low volume.

  We sat at a red arborite table with chrome legs and matching chairs and the kid pushed his school books and some note paper aside. “I’ll finish my homework later. This is more important.”

  I nodded my head, recalling my own school days when I’d latch onto any excuse to delay doing my homework. Then I got back to business: “You deliver along Parkdale, right? Beside the airport?”

  “Yep. I’ve got 31 customers. Along Dunsmure here, up to Kenilworth, then over to Main Street and back along Parkdale beside the airport.”

  I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “There’s a guy who keeps some dogs out behind his house on Parkdale. You know the place?”

  “You bet. But he doesn’t take the paper. People next door do, the Robertsons.”

  “Did you ever look around his place, see him with his dogs?”

  “Sure, I’ve seen him sometimes. But he’s a mean guy – if he ever sees you hanging around his property he chases you away. Why’re you asking – did he do something wrong?”

  “I don’t know yet. That old woman who lives at the corner – someone told me she might be related to that guy.”

  “Yeah, she’s his mother. Mean old witch, always complaining about the paper being late or yelling at me for cutting across her property. And I have to fold up the paper so it fits in this dinky little milk box at her side door. She’s always telling me to speak up ’cuz she says she’s deaf – but I see her on the phone all the time.”

  I recalled Mrs. Robertson telling me she was an eavesdropper.

 
“How do you know she’s this guy’s mother?”

  “She told me that when I took over this route last year. Said her son picks up her paper after she’s read it – the cheapskate.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “She calls him Sonny but I don’t know his real first name. His last name’s probably the same as hers, and that’s Gruchy. But I call her ‘Grouchy’ ‘cuz that’s what she is. One Saturday when I was collecting she’s counting out the exact change from this little green purse she keeps in her apron and I said under my breath, ‘Don’t give me one extra penny, Mrs. Grouchy’ and she says right away, ‘What did you call me?’ So she sure ain’t deaf.”

  I liked this kid. He was observant and spoke right up. “What about her son’s place – do you see lots of visitors down there, cars coming and going?”

  “Nah, it’s usually quiet. Except for the dogs. ’Course, I’m only down there once a day after school with my papers. And on Saturday afternoons when I do my collecting. Couple times I saw a delivery guy dropping off big sacks of stuff – could’ve been dog food, I guess.”

  “Did you ever speak with this Gruchy guy?”

  “Nope, but he scared the heck out of me a couple times; I remember once I was hiding in them bushes beside the pens, watching him with his dogs. He’s got this contraption like a conveyor belt and the dogs run on it while he speeds it up and they have to run faster and faster or they get thrown off, see? So I was looking at this one dog running like blue blazes then he was tossed right off and hit the wall, yelping and barking. I must’ve called out or made a noise ’cuz the guy saw me and nearly caught me when I took off. He used some pretty bad language, too.”

  “Did you ever figure out what he was doing?”

  “I think he’s training them to be hunting dogs ’cuz they could sure run hard.”

  I stashed my notebook in my jacket pocket and got up from the table. “Well, thanks for your help, Trevor. But from now on I think you should be careful around this Gruchy guy, he could be dangerous. We got a deal?” And I stuck out my hand.