by Lou Allin
For Chipper, the appeal of parenthood was fast fading. Then he remembered his father. The product of a Scottish orphanage in India, Gupta Knox had added the traditional Sikh name Singh when he’d emigrated to Canada with his wife. Decades of hard work had taken their toll. “It’s past eleven o’clock,” his mother would say in a musical voice. “Your poor father must have dozed off. Go down and shut up the shop, then bring him upstairs. I have a hot bath and tea ready. And hurry, hurry.” She clapped her pudgy hands, clinking her silver bangles. “You need your sleep, too.” And there his father would be, sitting on a stool with his head on the counter at their convenience store.
“An apology to the lady would be the best way to finish. I suggest you go over in person. And remember, those quads aren’t street legal. If you want to drive them in the clear-cuts or on private property, you have to transport them. In cases where hunting out of season is concerned or disruption of a salmon stream—”
A worm of a pulse began beating on the father’s temple. “No sweat there. My buddies and I get our deer up north.”
“The vehicle can be impounded. Confiscated. You know better than to drive on roads now, don’t you, Scott?” Chipper flashed a dazzling smile.
Bouchard blew out a long stream of smoke through his wide nostrils. “He’d damn well better.”
Scott stayed silent except for a slight nod. Then a gleam appeared in his soulless eyes as if he had remembered something useful. “Know what? I heard her in a big fight a couple of weeks ago. Some guy was yelling, and things were getting smashed.”
A knot tightened beneath Chipper’s shoulder blades. Things had been going so well. Now the blame game was starting. He refused to get sidetracked as he stood and closed his notebook with a decisive slap. “Arguing isn’t against the law. Defacing public property is.” Still, it didn’t jibe with what Holly had told him about the woman, a masseuse who tended to her clients and minded her own middle-class business.
Back at the detachment over doughnuts late that afternoon, Chipper filled Holly in on his semi-success with Scott. “Good job. I knew he’d respond better to you,” she said, resisting the urge for a second chocolate dip. “We don’t want a major incident, but the kids need to know that not only is graffiti not acceptable, that threats can get them into worse trouble. So he agreed to apologize?”
“He’ll probably scrawl a misspelled note and put it in her mailbox. But it should put an end to the nonsense. And I don’t think he’ll be driving the quad on the roads after seeing his father’s reaction. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave the kid a whack. I felt like it myself.”
“You said your father never raised a hand to you.”
“But my mother wielded a wicked wooden spoon.” Chipper paused for a minute. “Something weird, though, about Ms Clavir. When you were writing up your notes this morning, you told me Joel visited his sister, didn’t you? Sounds like there was some family trouble there.” He told her what the Scott had said about a fight.
Holly took a serviette to wipe icing from her mouth. “She admitted that he came by, that she gave him money. We didn’t go into much detail because it didn’t seem relevant at the time. It seemed sad to me, because I was an only child, and I might have liked a big brother.”
“I’m an only kid, too. Big brothers can stand up for you, but look at it this way: you had to learn to stand up for yourself. Good training for the job.” He looked out the window to where an eagle soared in the distances, its peeping cry belying its noble reputation.
“But what about Scott? Do you think the kid made up the fight to shift attention from himself?”
“He might have heard something. You know how they embellish. But it was the perfect way to shift attention, if you think about it.”
“I’d check with Marilyn again, but what’s the point in opening old wounds by asking her if they had a brawl? It’s kind of embarrassing.” She shuffled a few papers. “Did anything ever surface on that Fentanyl check?” Making sure that the deadly drug was not circulating in their territory was still a concern.
“I made a couple of calls. Nothing yet.”
“No news is good news where drugs are concerned.”
That night, Holly stood on her bedroom deck as a large brown moth battered around the light. Across the black strait, pinpricks of bright red fires on the Washington side lit the night. Surely they wouldn’t be burning off the clear-cuts in this dangerous drought. And was that smoke she smelled on the breeze? A forest fire had closed Route 20 in the North Cascades National Park, the news had reported. Suppose her area was threatened. Everyone was on wells, so there were no hydrants. Behind the parallel streets of development lay tinder-dry brush. The strait, from seven to eleven miles wide, was a buffer zone, and prevailing winds blew from the south, not north. As usual, the single coastal lifeline from Victoria to Port Renfrew made her uneasy. Where people went, fires followed.
*
The next morning, Holly passed Bailey Bridge on her way to work and saw Pete’s rusty van with the Helping Hands logo. He was about to close the rear hatch when he looked up and waved a large bag of bagels. Stomach rumbling, she pulled in and rolled down the window.
“Have breakfast on me, officer. They’re day-old but top drawer. Cobs Bakery donates their leftover goods. I even brought cream cheese.” He held up a tub and rattled a bag of plastic knives.
Clichés like the cop taking a free doughnut flashed through her mind. But yesterday’s bagel? “Very generous. If you have a spare, that would be great.” Why hurt the sweet man’s feelings? Though the “pastor” name was merely honorary, Pete spent his spare time making sure the homeless and poor had enough to eat. His food-bank drives cleaned out shelves in every house, and he made sure the supermarkets donated turkeys for a real spread at Christmas. Last year, Holly had helped serve and pass out toys to the kids. A crowd favourite, Shogun had attracted hugs and performed for treats.
“Is Bill around?” she asked, spreading the cream cheese and tucking in. Cobs was King of Victoria when it came to baked goods. Their artisan bread and cinnamon rolls were legendary, though pricy.
“Bill took his breakfast up in the hills to pick salmonberries. He’s the last one left here…since…” He fingered the simple cross hanging around his broad neck. The man had the build of a Brahma bull and a bigger heart. His unstinted dedication to his community and reverence for humanity gave him deserved respect. In yet another initiative last winter, he had assembled kits for the homeless, a waterproof poncho, tent, clothes and boots, and distributed them at the Evergreen Mall.
“Since Joel Clavir was found.” Holly completed his thought. “Did you know him? He also went by Joel Hall.” The drifter hadn’t been here very long, but Pete made regular rounds.
“Met him once, a very uncommunicative man. Not unfriendly, but taciturn. I saw right off that he would be a challenge. The readiness is everything. If the pitcher isn’t open for the water of life…” His voice trailed off, leaving the homily unfinished.
“I couldn’t handle your job, Pastor. You must run into resistance, especially with substance abusers.” She finished the bagel, then reached into the car for her portable coffee cup.
“That’s the odd part. I came by one morning with sweet rolls and juice. He asked me to keep something for him. For a week or so.”
“Money? Valuables?” What about that three hundred dollars? Carrying that much cash was risky. How much had Marilyn given him? It wasn’t Holly’s business. But her radar went up with this new twist.
Pete shook his head and shifted his stance. A short and bowlegged man, he’d had a childhood operation on a clubfoot which had left him with a slight limp. “I see where you’re going, and I wondered, too. It was a plain white envelope, business size, not that I did more than look at it in his hands. Couldn’t have held more than a few sheets of paper. Smudged. Dusty. It’s hard to keep everything clean when you live like this.” He spread his arm toward the bridge’s underbelly, where whorls of dirt spun in
the erratic air currents. A squirrel scolded from the cedars, annoyed at the humans preventing it from foraging for crumbs.
“Did he say what it was?” She appreciated the problems of the homeless, who guarded their belongings in shopping carts and refused to abandon them to enter shelters. New initiatives for the ongoing problem included lockers. “That’s stolen property,” opponents of a move to allow the carts inside would say. “You’re enabling thieves.”
“No, it seemed intrusive to ask.” Pete scratched a shaggy ear. Regular haircuts were not of concern to him. “Maybe it was a keepsake, or even his will.”
“Why would someone like that even make a will?” But she remembered that he had learned recently that he had a son. Someone like that. She sounded like a snob. “An insurance policy?” Police work involved being in tune with details. How many scientific breakthroughs came when someone said, “That’s funny” instead of the cliched “Eureka”? Might this explain Joel’s shadowy past?
“I’m no expert on insurance, but don’t you have to keep making payments? That would have been hard without a regular income. Anyway, it’s a moot point. I didn’t feel comfortable holding something valuable. People are in and out of our building at all times of the day, coming for a coffee, getting out of the rain. We don’t have locks even for the cupboards. I hated to turn him down, but…” He shrugged. “I told him to take it to a lawyer or rent a safety-deposit box.”
Holly gave him a skeptical look as she mused. It didn’t sound like Joel had planned to stay, nor was he reconciling with his sister. Was he ill, returning like a sick animal to die in a familiar place? The autopsy had demonstrated neglect more than signs of serious health problems. Where had the envelope gone? They’d checked his belongings. Had Bill taken it? Derek, the video-camera thief? She’d put nothing past that opportunist.
A call later from work to the arresting officer, Corporal Barb Cottingham at the Sooke detachment, confirmed that Derek had had no envelope with him when he was apprehended in front of BC Liquors. For all of his travelling light, Joel seemed to be a man of many secrets. What about that suggestion from Derek that he had a ready source of money? Not Judy, though. She had total contempt for him. His sister’s lottery win? He must have been drinking serious Kool-Aid if he thought she’d deflate her dream for him. Maybe that explained what Scott had said they were arguing about. Holly looked at her latest boring traffic reports and petty-crime statistics. Mourned by no one, Joel had died of an overdose, at the end of a self-destructive life. But the envelope intrigued her.
She saw Marilyn at the post office that afternoon mailing a letter. Dressed in casual jeans and a sweater, she turned with a smile, brushing back a curly lock of hair that had strayed over her eyes. “I wanted to thank you, or rather Constable Singh, for taking care of that paint on the road. It was embarrassing to have clients pass by it. You don’t expect that kind of vandalism in Fossil Bay, though it only takes one teenager.”
“Glad to do it. Graffiti, even if it’s not as ugly and personal as yours was, can make an area look lawless and unsafe. Once it’s there, like litter, more appears. The downside of human nature.”
Holly stepped back to let a bow-backed woman with a Yorkie get to her box. “Did the boy call you? I wouldn’t have put it past him to send an e-mail or text message.” Because of her business, Marilyn’s e-mail would be easy to obtain.
“He came over and painted the road with some kind of smelly driveway sealer, then left a short note in my mailbox. ‘Sorry. Won’t do it again.’ Probably cost him a lot to write it. Video games would be his forte.” She shook her head. “Listen to me sounding like the older generation. Most kids around here are decent. One does my lawn.”
“Constable Singh told me that he put the scare of impoundment into Scott’s father. A ten-thousand-dollar machine is a chunk of change.”
As they were leaving the building, Holly turned again to Marilyn. “There is something I’m not sure I should mention…”
Marilyn’s brow furrowed, and she waved a casual hand. “What’s wrong? I’m not afraid of this Scott Bouchard, if that’s what you mean. Isn’t this matter over and done?”
“I’m sure it is, but I’m talking about something the boy said. That he had heard you arguing with a man a few weeks ago. That it was…violent.” Was she being intrusive or just following up? Worrying a loose tooth? Should she even mention the envelope?
Glancing away, Marilyn stiffened. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know that it’s—”
Holly moderated her voice. “Not any of my business, you mean, but violence against women is everyone’s business. When we first met, your eye looked…” Bonnie Martin’s radar had been supersensitive to these “accidents”, and she’d coaxed the abused women from denial. “Did Joel threaten you? You might feel better telling someone about it.”
Leaning against the cinder-block wall for support, Marilyn swallowed heavily. Her knees seemed to weaken, and Holly gripped her arm as she took a seat on a bench backed by fragrant Nootka roses. “I’m sure he was exaggerating. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I was too ashamed to tell you, to tell anyone. Joel was always a bully.”
“And he was trying to get money from you? Big money, that is?”
“The lottery, what else? That’s why he turned up in the first place. He’d seen the story in the paper halfway across the country. I gave him a down payment I’d set aside for the carpenter’s supplies. It was so embarrassing. Maybe I could have had Joel prosecuted, but frankly I just wanted him to go away. It’s an ugly thought, but the more money he had for dope, the more likely he was to be out of my life, one way or another.”
“Never be afraid to come forward. Women don’t have to take that any more.”
Marilyn nodded, her lips firm. “I know that now.”
“We saw a few hundred of what you gave him. Nothing more turned up in his backpack.”
“It’s possible that he spent it. Money always flowed through Joel’s fingers, except it usually belonged to others, like Aunt Dee.”
“There was an envelope he asked Pastor Pete to keep for him.
He couldn’t oblige, of course. It hasn’t turned up. Perhaps that’s where the other money went.”
“I’m sorry to admit that I just wanted him to slip back down his snake hole, as long as it was off the island. He had a habit of ruining everything that was good.”
“At any rate, it’s over now,” Holly said, mustering a smile. “You have your project ahead of you.” And even Norman sometimes paid tradesmen in cash to get a lower price by cutting out the government. She wasn’t working for Revenue Canada.
Holly thought hard about the situation all the way home. She had never met Joel Clavir alive, but she’d known many similar types. People like Pastor Pete loved reformed sinners. Holly hadn’t the time, nor the resources, to invest in 24-7 reclamation of souls. The world was better off without them, though she’d never admit that professionally. In this case, a kind of rough justice had been done. But that damned envelope. As she passed Bailey Bridge, she remembered the geocaching concept. Hadn’t Tim Jones said that there was a hiding place in the vicinity of Bailey Creek? Police work was 90% shoe leather and 10% inspiration. Maybe 2%. If nothing else, she’d get a pleasant walk. But first she had to do some research.
ELEVEN
That night after chili soy burgers, a lentil casserole with too much sage, and carrot cake, Holly left her father watching Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice and fired up her computer. The geocaching.com website was huge. Signing in with a free membership, she got the basic rights to hunt and seek. The site also sold clothing, geo-coins and metal travel bugs.
Logging onto the Google Earth map, she navigated to Vancouver Island, marvelling at the hundreds of caches peppering the south end. In Victoria they were often historical sites or even pubs. “Earth caches” meant a geological spot like the Oligocene fossil deposit on Muir Beach. She fine-tuned the map and found troves at Kemp Lake, and even at the small community hall in Shir
ley. The Bailey Creek cache was supposed to contain small plastic toys. According to the location log, it required only twenty minutes of uphill climbing from the parking area. Few people wanted to do extensive bushwhacking. “Codes” provided extra clues. You could choose whether to use automatic deciphering or solve the puzzle yourself. She chuckled to discover an alternate universe with the proverbial “fun for all ages”.
Over ten people had logged the Bailey Creek site in the past year. Five who had failed had left frowny faces but said that the scenery was “cool”. One obvious problem bothered her. It seemed imperative to have a GPS. Despite the clues, she couldn’t stumble around blindly.
The next day, when Ann discovered Holly’s interest, she said, “Hold on. Reg bought one of those gimmicks two years ago. Seemed silly at the time, but now it may come in handy.” She put her spoon down beside her homemade bean soup.
After rummaging in one of the supply closets, Ann brought over a bulky Garmin GPS, peering at it like a strange animal and handing over a foreboding guidebook. “Haven’t a clue how to use it myself, but if you need help, Sean’s your man. He’s mentioned this geocaching,” she said, going to a drawer and pulling out fresh batteries. Ten-year-old Sean Carter was one of their special volunteers, too young for an official position, but always alert to “situations” in the neighbourhood such as abandoned cars and vandalism. He shepherded Ann around his local school on DARE (Drug Awareness Resistance Education) days. “He’s been kind of blue lately. His older sister has childhood leukemia, and the family’s been giving her all their attention, obviously. They’re in Victoria at the General overnight sometimes. I’ve gone over to stay with him.”
So Ann gave up some of her evenings on a couch to help others. “I hate when kids get sick. Damn, it’s so unfair,” Holly said.