She retreated to the bathroom and rinsed her wound under the cold water tap.
Blood ran into the sink, swirled down the drain. She bloodied a towel drying herself off.
Hot Stuff had put a tooth right through her — in one side and out the next. She needed a cork more than a bandage.
When she’d tended to her wound she went into the kitchen, poured an inch of rye into a water glass and drank it down.
Hot Stuff was still wedged into the corner under the bed. She attacked him with a spray bottle of window cleaner and then a pressure can of oven cleaner. He bristled and moaned, but refused to budge.
She tried to sweep him out. He bit the straw, and laughed in her face.
She got the poker from the fireplace and hit him hard. Howling, he scurried for his life.
My, but he was agile. She chased him through the living room, in and out of the kitchen. She thought she had him when he ran down the hall, because she’d shut the door to the guest bedroom. But he made a U-turn and scooted between her legs and got away again.
Disappeared.
Iris checked the doors and windows. He had to be somewhere in the house — there was no way out. She took a break, had another drink.
There was soapy water all over the kitchen counter and the floor.
She cleaned up, had another drink.
When she finally found Hot Stuff, it was entirely by accident. He’d wedged himself in behind the toilet, curled up in a ball and gone to sleep.
She shut the door, raised the poker. Hot Stuff whined and snarled. She struck at him and missed, and struck again.
He bolted. Panic-stricken, he bounced off the door and ran straight at it again.
The poker clanged against the bathtub. Chips of pink enamel rattled against the tiles. Terrified, Hot Stuff pissed on his own shoes.
The poker caught him square on the head. He sank to the floor, eyes bulging and legs splayed out. He’d been killed between one breath and the next.
Iris wasn’t taking any chances.
By the time she’d finished with him, he had all the stuffing knocked out of him, was flat as a bathmat.
Hot Stuff, indeed.
Chapter 21
Bradley said, “Remember a couple of years ago, I’d come to work in the morning and find somebody’d been at my Coronas?”
Willows nodded politely.
Parker said, “You thought it was a janitor.”
“Yeah, the guy with the curly black hair, all those gold chains. But I couldn’t prove it. Then the rotten bastard’s parents were killed in a train accident and he skipped back home to grab the estate. An olive orchard, something like that.”
Willows looked out the window. The tar and gravel roof of the adjoining building was covered in what he couldn’t stop himself from thinking of as a mantle of white.
Bradley said, “Anyhow, I haven’t lost a cigar since he left. Then, this morning, guess what happens?”
Parker said, “Somebody stole all your cigars, box and all.”
“How did you know?”
“The box is always on your desk — but now it isn’t.”
Bradley said, “Jack?”
Willows turned his gaze from the mantle of white to the inspector’s eyes, which, God help him, he suddenly realized were a piercing blue.
He said, “Yes, Inspector?”
“When I got here this morning, my office door was, contrary to regulations and the way I like things done around here, wide open.”
Willows said, “Yeah, I noticed.”
“You were first person in, right?”
“As far as I know.”
“The door was open when you arrived?”
“Wide open.”
Bradley leaned back in his chair. “At this point, I suspect I’ve been victimized by a joker. Maybe I should say I’m hopeful that’s the case.” He turned to Parker. “Have you heard any rumours to that effect?”
Parker shook her head, no.
“Jack, I’m wondering if Eddy’s wife recently gave birth…”
“Not to my knowledge, Inspector.”
Bradley didn’t try to hide his disappointment. The missing cigar box had been carved from a solid block of red cedar by a well-known Haida artist and was worth at least two hundred dollars. It had been a farewell gift from his ex-wife; the last thing she’d given him — except for several years’ worth of heartburn. As he grew older, Bradley’s personal history vanished with quickening speed into a kind of roiling mist that swallowed good memories and bad. The cigar box was an important signpost in his life — it served to reinforce his fading belief that he’d actually had a past. He valued the box tremendously.
He wanted it back.
He said, “Listen, I wouldn’t want this to get out of the squad room, but I’m posting a reward.”
Willows said, “How much?”
Bradley gave him a pained look.
Willows said, “Face it, Inspector. It’s the first question everybody’s going to ask.”
“Fifty bucks?”
Willows looked out the window.
Bradley said, “Okay, a hundred. And another buck per cigar.”
“How much for the perp?”
“Nothing, not a cent. I want my cigar box. That’s what I’m paying for, nothing else.”
Bradley shifted a stack of files from one side of his desk to the other, and back again. “Okay, so much for the vitally important stuff. You get Roth’s killer yet?”
“Not yet,” said Parker.
“But soon?”
Willows said, “No promises, Inspector. Roth wasn’t a tremendously popular guy. Everybody who knew him is a potential suspect.”
“Somebody must have loved him. Somebody loves damn near everybody.”
“He was going out with a woman named Susan Carter.”
“Works at the aquarium, right?”
Willows nodded.
Bradley said, “That’s what I’d focus on. His love interest.” He smiled with teeth that were old and yellow but still had plenty of bite. “Passion’s always been my favourite motive.”
Parker said, “We just talked to Susan. Or tried to.”
Bradley lifted an inquisitive eyebrow.
“She was in mourning,” explained Willows.
“Drunk,” said Parker.
Bradley shrugged. “She’ll sober up eventually. What’s next on the agenda?”
“Another talk with Roth’s widow.”
“Iris.”
Willows said, “We’ve been phoning on and off all day. If she’s home, she isn’t in the mood for company.”
Bradley said, “There’s two of you, and you’re both young and strong — why don’t you go over there and beat her door down?” He shut his eyes, massaged his temples. “Just kidding, folks.”
Willows said, “Tony Sweeting gave us his files on the animal rights groups that have harassed or threatened the aquarium or its personnel during the past few years.”
“Yeah?”
“A guy named Archie Brock seems our most likely suspect. In the past five years he’s written quite a few vaguely threatening letters addressed to various staff members, including Roth.”
“How many letters is ‘quite a few’?” asked Bradley.
“In excess of five thousand.”
“My goodness. What a busy fellow.”
Willows smiled.
Bradley said, “How many members does he have in his organization?”
“Just the one.”
“He must be a hell of a typist. What else do we know about him?”
Parker said, “Archie’s done some time at Riverview, mostly awaiting psychiatric evaluation. I had a brief off-the-record with the psychiatrist who evaluated him most recently — that’d be about a year ago. In his learned opinion Archie writes a mean letter but that’s about as mean as Archie gets. The shrink said Archie thinks too highly of the whales to feed them something as morally deficient a human being.”
“Why bother
with him, then?”
“People do change.”
“True.”
“Usually for the worst.”
“Equally true.”
“Another thing,” said Willows, “There was a copy of Roth’s will in his desk. He was insured for five hundred thousand dollars. His wife gets most of it, but fifty grand goes to Archie Brock.”
Bradley didn’t say a word, but his chair squeaked as he sat up a little straighter.
Parker said, “Archie isn’t our only suspect, or even the best. Anthony Sweeting was alone the night Dr Roth was killed. No alibi. So we can’t rule him out. And we definitely need another session with Iris before we can cross her off our wish list.”
Willows said, “By the time Eddy and his gang finish with the rest of the aquarium’s employees, we’ll have so many pissed-off citizens on our hands that we won’t know where to put them all. In the meantime, it seems wise to tread where Eddy hasn’t stomped. Besides, if Archie didn’t kill Roth, he might have an idea who did.”
Bradley nodded. “Where’s Archie like to roost, when he isn’t hanging out at the asylum?”
“That’s the serendipity part. He lives in Horseshoe Bay, just a few miles past Eagle Island.”
“And he’s home, and in the mood to entertain?”
“So his mother tells us.”
*
Archie Brock was doing fairly well, judging by his address, which was screwed to the wall of a Tudor-style gatehouse in custom-made foot-high polished brass numbers that must easily have cost a thousand dollars the set.
Willows drove down a narrow road that meandered artfully through a tangle of undergrowth studded with mature evergreens. The driveway made a sudden turn, then dipped sharply. A small animal darted in front of the car and vanished beneath a boxwood hedge pruned in the shape of a whale. The road twisted again. The house suddenly reared up in front of them.
Archie Brock’s sprawling, cedar-shingled home sat hunched on a granite foundation. A deep wraparound porch gave the building a warm, welcoming aura. Willows parked the car next to a Range Rover. A red Jaguar convertible and a white Buick station wagon were parked in a triple garage. He and Parker got out of the Ford. Barney raised his head. He yawned hugely and then went back to sleep. It was as if he instinctively knew that he was still a long way from home. The house was situated on a rocky bluff a hundred feet or so above the ocean, in at least an acre of grounds.
High overhead, metal squeaked on metal. Willows glanced up. Above the steeply pitched roof’s ridgeline a large weathervane in the shape of a killer whale turned slowly in the wind.
As he and Parker walked towards the house, Willows said, “I’m starting to think I’m in the wrong profession — the animal rights biz obviously pays top dollar.”
Parker smiled. “If he can afford the postage for five thousand letters, it stands to reason he’s going to be reasonably well off.”
“Anybody who lives in a place like this would have to be unreasonably well off.”
“You sound like the government, Jack.”
Willows laughed. He said, “I don’t want to tax him out from under his roof, I just want to know where he got the money to pay for it.”
They climbed the granite front steps. Despite the inclement weather, a trio of glossy white wicker chairs were grouped around a wicker table at the far end of the porch, where there was a sweeping view of the water. The polished brass door knocker was, naturally, in the shape of a killer whale.
Willows used his fist. Through the bevelled and leaded glass he saw a distorted movement deep inside the house. A moment later a shadow darkened the glass, and then the door swung open.
An elderly woman who looked like everybody’s idea of a grandmother gave Parker and then Willows a rosy-cheeked smile.
“You must be the detectives from across the water!”
Willows smiled and nodded. He introduced Parker and then himself.
“Well, I’m Archie’s mother. Always have been and I suppose I always will be.” She waved vaguely towards the driveway. “Is there a Jaguar in the garage?”
“Yes, there is,” said Parker.
“Red as a whore’s first blush?”
Parker nodded.
“Good. That’s Archie’s flavour of the month. Whore’s blush red. If the car’s there, he’s here.” She pushed the door open a little wider. “Don’t just stand there — come on in.”
Willows followed Parker into the house. As Willows shut the door Mrs Brock said, “Be careful you don’t slam it. And please speak quietly at all times. We who live here treasure this house as an oasis of peace and quiet in what has become an increasingly strident and uselessly noisy world. Am I making any sense to you?”
Willows said yes.
“Well, good. Archie said it first. Strident and uselessly noisy world. That child’s got a way of talking that is extremely seductive. When he’s at his best he can read the instructions off a container of anti-freeze and make it sound like ten rules to live by.”
She smiled at Parker. “Tell me, Claire, do you know anybody like that?”
Parker jerked her thumb towards Willows.
“No! Really? Isn’t that interesting?” Peering over her gingham shoulder at Willows, Mrs Brock led them down a wide hallway with a dully gleaming plank oak floor and white-painted walls covered with hundreds of pictures of killer whales. She paused to open a door and Willows found himself being stared down by a pair of bloodhounds stretched out on an oval carpet in front of a blackened fieldstone fireplace.
Then that door was shut, and another opened on what must have been the music room. A girl, no more than ten or eleven years old, lay on her stomach on an ebony grand piano, carefully picking out a tune with her toes. She wore an orange top hat and leopard-skin leotards, and seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. She looked up and smiled prettily.
Mrs Brock said, “That’s Lillian She lives not far away. Her father and mother are actors. She wants me to adopt her. What do you think of that?”
Parker said, “How old is she?”
“Nine. But she’s very mature for her age. When she’s in the mood, she can tickle those ivories fit to break your heart.”
A third room held a large painter’s easel standing on a polar bear rug. Blank canvases, many tubes of white paint and a jar of white-tipped brushes of various size stood on a small white table. Mrs Brock said, “This was the sewing room until my eyes started to go. Don’t ask me about the artwork. Ricardo knows what’s going on but he isn’t the sharing type.”
Parker said, “Ricardo?”
“He must be a friend of Archie’s, because he’s far too young for me. You know the type. Tall, muscular. Reddish-blonde hair. He’s a therapist but wants to be a painter. At the moment, he’s feeling extremely involved and passionate about purity, which he currently defines as a complete absence of impurity. So, everything he paints is white. Which is, of course, the antithesis of darkness. He’s painted a dozen pictures in the last few months and I can’t tell one of them from the next, even with the aid of a magnifying glass.”
She smiled at Parker. “He asked me to pose for him, and I did, for hours and hours. By the time he was done with me I had a terrible neck-ache. And do you know what I ended up looking like?”
“No,” said Parker. “What?”
“A freshly ironed bedsheet. A white bedsheet, I hasten to add.”
Mrs Brock led them further down the hall and into the living room — a huge room with a beamed ceiling that spanned the width of the house and was dominated by a massive fireplace and long wall of leaded-glass windows overlooking a wind-blown expanse of rock studded with patches of snow and tufts of grass, that descended so steeply it seemed as if it was falling into the sea.
Pointing, Archie’s mother proudly said, “There he is, there’s my darling boy.”
Willows made his way around a sofa, stepped over a rusty child’s tricycle. A small gazebo had been built in the shelter of a precariously sited clump
of three or four red cedars. A man wearing a dark green windbreaker and a floppy off-white hat sat in the gazebo with his back to them, looking out at the view.
Mrs Brock said, “He’s always liked being outside. I can ring the bell if you like.”
Parker said, “No, it’s alright. We’ll go down to him.” On the wall above the fireplace was a very large photograph of a naked man juggling five black and white kittens. He was grinning maniacally, his eyes alight with pleasure. There was blood on his hands, streaks of blood on his chest, a thin, curving red line just below his right eye.
Willows opened a door, stepped on to the wide porch that ran all the way around the house.
Mrs Brock gently took Parker’s arm. Indicating the picture, she said, “That’s Archie’s father. He juggled poisonous snakes, too, for a while. Archie hates that picture and what it stands for, but I won’t take it down because it’s the only one of Bob enjoying himself that I’ve got left.”
Parker said, “There were others?”
“Lots and lots. I burned most of them and tossed the rest into the ocean. You bring your arm across your body as if you were throwing a Frisbee. Frame up. If you do it just right, you can throw a medium-size canvas a long, long way.”
Nodding, unable to think of anything to say, Parker slipped out the door. Willows was waiting halfway down the steps. A slate path traversed the yard diagonally, and he and Parker followed it down to the gazebo. As they drew near, Archie Brock turned and stared at them, his eyes flicking from Parker to Willows and back again.
The gazebo was an octagon made of unpainted cedar, with a steeply pitched roof and waist-high walls topped with a wide railing. Inside, a plain wooden bench ran all around the inside wall.
Willows sat down opposite Archie, taking care that he didn’t block the view. Parker sat midway between the two men. She smiled. Archie thrust his hands into his pockets and looked away.
The ocean heaved against the rocky shore. A gust of wind made the grass lie flat. Something moved under Archie’s jacket. Parker stiffened. A white rabbit with pink eyes stared unblinkingly at her for a fraction of a second, and then was gone.
Archie said, “That’s Louie-Louie.”
Parker nodded. She said, “Shy, isn’t he?”
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