by Lou Allin
“Huh.” He headed for the phone. Potable water tankers circled the town perimeters from June to October.
That night he was unusually quiet. He accepted her compliments about the dinner but didn’t deliver his usual running commentary, quizzing her every five minutes on films, television shows and fads. After dinner, he took his decaf to the solarium, turned “Eleanor Rigby” to a bare murmur, and sipped pensively as he marked papers. On the deck outside, a few sparrows and red-capped finches sparred for crumbs fallen from the barbecue.
Holly opened a copy of Jane Hall’s book The Red Wall, describing her experiences in 1977 as one of the first women in the RCMP. Her graduating class had been issued pillbox hats, skirts and purses. For their guns?
Her father clicked his ball point. “Final exams. No pride in their work. You should see the spelling. I don’t know why I waste my time teaching. And this summer course is even worse. I see all the people I failed.”
“Maybe you should teach report writing for law enforcement. They’d take you seriously. We have to be letter perfect.” She spoke tongue-in-cheek, knowing that such a practical discipline would never interest him.
Every now and then, the cocoon of his Ivory Tower wore thin. She had noticed this first after her mother had disappeared. Without Bonnie as a counter-balance, the black dog had held him so fast in its clutches that Holly’d been on the brink of recommending anti-depressants. She debated now giving him the lava lamp as a very early Christmas present.
He barked out a laugh to let her know he was trying to cheer up, tucked away the papers, then returned to Jonathan Livingstone Seagull, slumping in his recliner.
Later as she came to his bedroom to say goodnight, he was standing and staring at his wedding picture on the bureau. Déjà vu, memento mori, and all points in between. He wore a bell-bottomed suit Seventies style, and Bonnie wore a batik dress with her shiny ebony hair flowing like velvet to her shoulders. Looped in colourful leis, they stood on a beach on the Big Island, its volcanos in the distance. His parents gathered around, beaming. Margaret and William Martin had been buried years ago in Sudbury, where he’d grown up.
Instead of pink belly up and legs splayed on the bed, Shogun was lying in the corner as if banished. She could hear his border-collie grumbles. “What’s the matter, Dad? We had to order the water. It should do us until the rains start.”
This time his voice had a slight edge. “It’s not the money. Just something I’m working on. I’ll tell you in a few days.”
“This sounds sinister. Tell me now.”
“No big deal. Really, I need to turn in. I’m bushed.” As a hint, he hung up his dressing gown and pulled back the bedcovers.
The jut of his jaw and his tone made her retreat. Clearly something was bothering him, but for now she chose to let him tell her on his own schedule.
EIGHTEEN
I’ll be late tonight, Dad. Maybe eleven. Don’t wait. Of course I won’t skip dinner.” Holly hung up after leaving the message. Hamburger Helper wasn’t one of her faves anyway.
Quarterly reports were due, and she’d left them until the last minute. But thanks to Ann staying overtime without pay, they had everything wrapped by nine. Ann had brought in hot turkey sandwiches, and they’d made a picnic clogging their arteries.
“Chipper usually does this. I’ll see that he pays,” Holly said as they sealed the material into a manila envelope for the courier. The doctor had prescribed a few days of rest at home for him until his lungs were absolutely clear. Last time Holly had seen, though, he had locked eyes with a cute nurse. To her surprise, Holly felt proprietorial about her handsome coworker. But what about poor Mindy?
Arriving home around ten, she was surprised not to see Norman’s car. No barking erupted as she came in the back door. The lights were burning in the lower part of the house. The stereo was playing “Down on the Corner”. A dinner plate and cutlery sat rinsed by the sink as on the abandoned Marie Celeste. And no note. Had he taken Shogun for a walk? Surely not in the dark, since the flashlights remained in the cupboard.
Calling Madeleine brought only worrisome information. “Sorry, I haven’t seen him since I went by with the dogs late this afternoon. He was in a very pensive mood. Distracted.”
“He gets that way sometimes but usually fights it off. It’s very strange that he’s not here, nor Shogun.”
A tinge of concern crept into Madeleine’s voice. “I asked him over for coffee and Tosca cake after dinner, and he said he had an appointment.”
“An appointment at night?” Insurance? Investments? Drafting a new will? Another woman?
“He said nothing more. I didn’t like to pry.”
Upstairs in her father’s study, she found his usual clutter and piles of papers. “I am sorry that according to the grading protocols, fifty is the lowest mark I can give you. Your proofreading is an absolute disgrace. Take some pride in your work,” red ink proclaimed on the top essay. To maintain students in a time of dropping enrollment, the university had gradually adopted more quantifying schemes which saved a few. Was that what was bothering him?
Then back in the kitchen, she noticed the answering machine still glowing. A message had been played but not erased. With a trembling hand, she pressed the button. A gravelly voice said between coughs, “Fan Tan Alley. Ten o’clock. Go to the end. And don’t be late. Bring the money. Twenties and fifties. Nothing bigger.”
A cold chill of a nightmare ran down her back. At intervals, Norman had placed a newspaper ad seeking information about Bonnie. Some insect was bound to crawl out of the woodwork. Tonight, knowing that she wouldn’t be home until very late, he had gone off playing detective.
In a few minutes, in a lather, she was tooling down West Coast Road, then Sooke Road, then winding her way through Luxton, Langford and catching the busy TransCanada to downtown Victoria. Even at night in the core, tourist traffic was brutal. The poorly-lit crosswalks every half block along Douglas Street didn’t help, especially when people wore fashionable black. She cut over to Government Street, braking at Chatham for a smooching couple.
Fan Tan Alley. Once the entrance to a maze of convoluted passageways, courtyards, opium dens, and gambling clubs, the warren had gotten its name from a popular game. At the time of the construction of the Parliament Buildings and the Empress Hotel, which still anchored the Inner Harbour, Chinatown was a thriving community of several thousand souls. Now only a few buildings, restaurants, and the elaborate Gates of Harmonious Interest remained to harbour ghosts. Yet their people had endured.
The alley snaked between Fisgard and Pandora. Holly pulled into a pay lot, amazed to see the little blue car, circling the block like a persistent beetle, looking for a meter with two minutes left, no doubt. He’d probably forgotten that parking was free at night. She waved both arms, and her father pulled over. Slowly the window rolled down.
“Next time if you don’t want to be found, erase your tracks. Where the hell do you think you’re going? I was worried out of my mind,” she said, her pulse beating in her temple. Shogun was dog-belted into the passenger seat.
“Watch your language, young lady.” Norman gripped the wheel, clearing his throat in embarrassment. “I have this all set up. If you butt in, he might—”
“Butt in? Pardon me? Who might what?” She spoke in a hiss. “A sleazebag could leave you unconscious in an alley…or worse! I can’t believe you did this behind my back.”
“He has information. And besides, here’s my guard dog.” He cocked a thumb towards Shogun, sitting at attention with an insouciant look.
“Shogun’s not a pit bull. Anyone could dropkick his forty-pound pedigree over the Gorge to Esquimalt. Now stay here until I get back, or I swear I’ll take you to the cells myself. You need to cool off.”
“On what charge, if I may dare ask?”
She pulled up the first words she could find. “Obstructing justice.”
“I’m trying to see that justice is done!” He pounded the dash, and Shogun gave a
nervous yip.
“Stay, Dad, and I mean it.” She emphasized her message with a gesture. Never before had she found herself in the position of dictating to him. It wasn’t pleasant. In some ways he was even more truculent than her mother.
Dressed in a blue trench coat on a night cooler than usual, she still wore her uniform. Serious trouble was unlikely, but she unfastened the holster and nestled her hand on the gun like a little friend. Gang wars were relegated to the other side of the Georgia Strait in Vancouver. Victoria had two murders a year. But who wanted to beat the odds?
The clouds parted to reveal a full moon streaked with grey. From down the street tourists exited an upscale nightclub. With the heavy Maglite for her truncheon, she made her way down the dark alley, passing closed stores, an old-fashioned barbershop, a craft store. At a rusty iron gate near the end, she turned into a putrid square obviously used as a bathroom, the underbelly of the City of Gardens. The squalid space was deserted, except for a person of indeterminate sex slumped on a piece of cardboard in a corner. She walked forward quietly and toed the bundle with her boot. “About time. Did you bring…” the slurred voice asked, and then stopped as he looked up. “Hey, who the fuck are you?
I ain’t doing nothing. Leave me alone.” The homeless knew that they were less likely to be hassled than a jaywalker.
“Exactly what information do you have?”
“What the hell is this?” The skinny man rose to his feet with a scowl, then noticed the open holster.
“You tell me,” she said in as low a voice as she could muster. “Now put your hands against the wall, spread your legs. DO IT!”
She patted him down, giving him a final trip. He fell with a thud onto his cardboard and turned away. “Move your face into the light. I want to see your pretty mug,” she commanded.
“Fuck off, asshole.” He blinked as the beam shone in his chinless face, smug in the fact that it was no crime to swear at the law.
Holly pulled her coat aside to reveal the taser. Her badge glinted in a small shard of light. “Maybe a tiny nip from this would help.”
“Whoa! I don’t want no trouble. This is a big mistake.”
She tapped the taser, not good policy but effective with vermin. “Now what were you going to tell the man? What were you going to tell my father?”
“Your…” His hollow mouth showed a row of dull rodent teeth. “All right. So I got nothing. Gonna charge me with extortion? You haven’t got jack shit in proof.”
“What were you planning? A little robbery in the night? Roll the professor? Give me your ID. Now!”
He shrugged, his grubby jacket pulled aside. Baggy jeans and a dirty t-shirt. “It sounded like easy money. Tell him some bullshit. Can’t blame a guy for trying.”
He handed over a thin wallet, and in the glow of a street light she read the name, then handed it back. There was no way she could take him in. This wasn’t even her jurisdiction. “If I ever see or hear from you again, you’ll be riding in a squad car some cold winter day and left on a logging road in the bush. That’s the way we operate in the Western Communities.”
It was an ugly and preposterous threat, but he said nothing, merely rolled back on the mat, picked up a mickey and drank. The smell of cheap rum drifted up.
As she walked away, she wished that she had been wrong. That he had information worth the price. No sum would be too much.
She returned to the car to find Norman biting his lip, hands gripping the steering wheel. “At least you didn’t lose any money over this, just pride,” she said. “How much did he want?”
“A few thousand. Nothing.”
For a penny pincher, that was major. “What did he say he knew?”
“Something about seeing the Bronco up by Campbell River. And your mother with another man.”
“That’s all? He could have found information like that from newspaper morgues. The library’s down the street. He could have used the search engines for the archives.” As for the other man, they both knew about Larry Gall, her boyfriend. He’d been cleared completely and seemed to miss her as much as they did.
“You can do that? I didn’t imagine.” Except for trolling for nostalgia items, the most he did on a computer was check for plagiarism.” He felt that Wikipedia should be shut down for ignorance and oversight.
“And next time,” she said, leaning into the car and rubbing Shogun’s ears, “pick Dragon Alley. It’s upscale and a hell of a lot cleaner.”
NINETEEN
That afternoon, after strings had been pulled all the way to the Vancouver labs thanks to Boone, the substance analysis from the stairs of the house on Booster Ave came back. Munching flaky kuchen from the Little Vienna Bakery, Holly sat with Ann in the easy chairs in the lunchroom. Things had been so quiet that morning that they’d both nearly fallen asleep. “Plastic wood,” she said, showing her the printout.
“Kids in Wawa used to sniff that,” Ann said. “How long has the stuff been around?”
“Home Hardware guy said since the Forties.”
“And your theory is…”
“It’s obvious to someone looking closely. There was a trip string or wire on the second stair from the top. Two nail holes, an accident waiting for a victim. You don’t need much with a staggering drunk. If Clare Clavir had survived, she wouldn’t have known what happened. I saw a guy once who’d cut off his hand with a chainsaw. So drunk he was feeling no pain, or maybe it was the body’s defenses. Lucky his buddy knew about tourniquets.”
Ann crossed her legs and got into a more comfortable position. “Dee said that she and Marilyn were next door helping a woman can fruit when they heard the scream. Marilyn ran over there like a shot.”
“Joel was asleep in his room. That’s the strange part. Why didn’t he wake up?”
Ann’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “You’ve never been a mother. Teenagers sleep until noon like they’re unconscious. My son did.”
“So she yanked the nails then later, in the confusion, filled the holes with plastic wood. Maybe a quick sand.” Her voice slowed in contemplation. “You’d need tools. Sounds like a plan. She must have hated her mother, and from what I’ve learned, no wonder.”
“It looked like an accident. Paramedics tried to revive her, but she died instantly, the coroner said. No one considered it a crime scene.” Ann put down the old report Boone had also faxed over. “I still can’t believe it. Marilyn is the last person I’d suspect of violence.”
“I know what you mean. And, Ann, she couldn’t even have been sure Clare would be killed.”
Ann blew out a breath, then finished her tea. “But she’d sure as hell be incapacitated for a long time. Enough to delay or even prevent the move. Clare’s boyfriend didn’t sound like the kind to wait. Con men depend on timing.”
“What happened to Mitch Garson? You were going to run a check,” Holly said, wondering if he could be another slimy piece of this ugly puzzle. Joel had surfaced after over thirty years like a filthy penny. Why not this piece of trash? Except that he’d be in his eighties.
Ann put her arms behind her and stretched. “Did two years less a day in Milton for lottery fraud twenty years ago. Then he turned up in an obituary in the Calgary papers last summer.”
“What makes you think Joel had no role in his mother’s death?” Holly patted crumbs from her mouth, then tossed the serviette into a wastebasket.
“Hell, Dee claimed that Clare gave him everything he wanted, and he was happy to be moving to the big city with more scope for his schemes. No motive.” Ann gave Holly an even look. “We’re omitting one person. Shannon. What did she know? Nothing? Everything?”
“Or something in between. Nowhere to go on that.”
“Like in ‘two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead.’ So what now?”
“Let me mull it over.”
“Mulling is good.” Ann smiled.
As Ann returned to her work, Holly finished the dregs of some coffee as noxious as her thoughts. The big dog
s at headquarters were no more likely to consider this piece of history any more than they’d examine the Shroud of Turin for trace. Joel and Shannon were dead. Unless she got a confession from Marilyn, this was merely an exercise. And if the woman refused to cave, what then? Avoid her for the next few years and hope to be transferred? Face it, she thought. All over the world are cases in which the law knows the person is guilty but can’t do a damn thing about it. Still, as in her mother’s fate, she wanted to know. The truth was the thing. Painful or not.
What about Marilyn’s conscience? Was she waiting for the truth to free her? The cliché had legs. How many times on the First 48 had a detective reduced even a hardened suspect to tears, forced him to admit what had been gnawing his soul? One minute the thug was talking tough or pulling his arms inside a hoodie in a gesture of guilty withdrawal. Then came the magic words. Asked to “man up,” tears would stream down his face, and the “baby daddy” would ask to see his three-year-old. Marilyn had been only fifteen. What about a reduced charge? Manslaughter. Reckless endangerment. If she claimed to have been abused as a child…all bets were off. But what proof remained of that? Only her word? And Aunt Dee’s.
She forced herself to call Serenity. The answering machine gave a reprieve: “I’ll be out of town until Wednesday…sorry for the…if this is an emergency…” Holly tried her cell, but the line went straight to Telus voice messaging.
“There’s only one choice left. I’m going to talk to Aunt Dee,” she said to Ann, who gave her an ok sign.
Ten minutes later, she crossed the threshold of Eyre Manor, holding the door for a man exiting on a scooter and narrowly missing a bruised knee. The staff was cooperative, but curious. Holly explained that she was closing out an accidental death case involving Dee’s nephew. “She’s in her room writing down her mother’s recipe for bean soup. Dee has made a special project out of improving our meals,” an aide said.
Holly had never been in a nursing home and considered it as depressing as a hospital, but the place seemed cozy and friendly. A man with an accordion was playing “Lady of Spain” as dozen people in armchairs and wheelchairs clapped to the rhythm. En route to Dee’s wing, she found herself buying tickets on a log cabin design quilt from a fireplug of a lady with a chipmunk voice.