by Iona Whishaw
Robin shook his head. “You don’t want to do the work. Typical. Apparently I don’t have enough to do working the Hughes’ crop and my own.” He reached disapprovingly for a handful of chocolate bourbons.
“No, of course not. I’ll pick them and box them, but you just sell them with yours. I don’t really need the money.” Ideal, she suddenly thought. I won’t have to think about Darling at all if I’m up a ladder for the next while.
“I don’t even know if what you have is worth selling. That orchard’s been neglected since the old lady died.”
“Why don’t we go out and have a look when you’ve finished your tea? What I don’t know about apples is just about everything.”
Looking reluctantly pleased, he slurped the last of his tea and put his cup down.
He’d pulled out his tin of hand-rolled cigarettes and lit one up as they left the house, and now stood with it in his lips at the upper edge of her barn looking across at her small stand of apple trees. The grass had grown tall between them, standing like a golden sea, unmoving in the windless air. She saw the thing through his eyes. On the other side of the far fence in his orchard, the grass between the trees had been kept short and the ripening apples gleamed on the branches. By contrast hers looked like part of an unkempt and abandoned farmstead, which in fairness, it was.
“You haven’t sprayed them. You’ll have maggots and moths and all sorts eating them.” He strode through the high grass, stopped at the first tree, and looked up. “See? You can see them at it already.” He picked an apple and pulled a pocket knife out of his overalls and sliced it in half, revealing a green worm wriggling frantically at the sudden exposure.
“Oh. Do you mean I’d have to spray that smelly yellow stuff you put on yours?”
“Look, Miss Winslow. I haven’t got time for this. Scale, mildew, insects of every kind—that’s what you’re producing in this mess. I suggest you give it up as a bad job if you’re too namby pamby to spray and look after them properly. Thank you for the tea.” He turned and plowed back through the grass and went around the front of her barn to the road, where his tractor waited.
Blimey, she thought, watching him bump noisily up the road. I can’t seem to put a foot right with poor Robin. She turned and walked back toward the house. He was right. She was too namby pamby to spray whatever it was on her trees. If it killed fruit-boring insects, it no doubt killed other insects as well. Her feelings of guilt over letting the orchard decay into a memory notwithstanding, she began to picture herself as a sort of bohemian spinster. She would wear turbans and long flowing robes and let nature have its way, tangling and growing up around her and her house. Perhaps she could paint, or take up pottery. Angela painted, and beautifully at that. All right, pottery then, she thought defiantly. Her career as a writer had certainly not progressed.
She put the tea things into the sink and noted with amusement that somehow Robin had got through half a packet of the bourbons. Then she saw herself as she must look to people like Robin, or even the Hughes. She’d moved into an industrious farming community and could swan about not doing anything useful because she had independent means. Everyone was doing something useful. The Hughes ladies were part of the apple economy and grew all their own food, practically working like ants all summer to put things up for the winter. The Armstrongs ran the local post office. Angela brought up the boys and David taught and wrote music. Even Reginald Mather grew a garden and planned appalling sawmills that never materialized. All up and down the lake people did good honest work. Look at poor Vanessa Castle, coping with her egg business without her son, running herself ragged.
Looking at her watch, Lane felt a surge of determination. She could at least jolly well help in that department. She closed the box of cookies, suddenly imagining insects getting into them as well, and got ready to drive to the Castles’ place.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I’ve had the call from Dawson Creek already, sir. Both Lazek and Bremmer were part of a group that arrived there in the spring of 1939 or ’40. Bremmer was there till 1942, and then he moved off, they thought down east somewhere. Lazek was young, maybe nineteen. He came on his own. They remembered him as being fairly unhappy. He worked hard but didn’t like it, and apparently he had family back home he was always worried about. As far as anyone knew, he signed up after the enemy aliens designation was dropped.” Ames was holding his notes, standing in Darling’s doorway.
Darling frowned. “I thought you said they were refugees. How did they become enemy aliens?”
Ames shrugged. “I asked about that. They were refugees all right, but I guess someone got all excited about the fact that they were German and hardly knew English, so the RCMP registered them as enemy aliens. They made a fuss, and someone must have gone to bat for them, because that designation was dropped not too long after. A few of the men signed up. They weren’t much for the farming, though there’s a lively little community there now, with a school and so on, so it must have worked out for some of them.”
“And where did they come from originally?”
Ames consulted his notes. “Bohemia—Czechoslovakia now. As Miss Winslow suspected. They ran off when Hitler came in. He had it in for them because they were communists or something. I picked up some of that in the newspaper articles. The RCMP officer I spoke to said they were decent people, but early on they made themselves pretty unpopular because they thought there was supposed to be money given to them to settle, but the money was handled by the CWR, and the settlers complained pretty loudly that they were being swindled and demanded to know what happened to the money. It doesn’t sound like it was very well handled. The officer I talked to said that he was surprised by how little the people were given for their settlement. On top of that, they were given old horses, broken wagons, used tools.”
“So someone might think that the railway was creaming off the money. Did they speak English?”
“Oh, yes,” Ames said, “Lazek was one who spoke English. They often sent him to negotiate at the CWR office. Someone mentioned how angry he would get. He called them fascists more than once.”
“Aha. He had form confronting people. How much do you want to bet Lorimer was the very man he confronted back then? Anything else?” Darling asked.
“That’s pretty well the lot, sir. What now?”
“I’ve just had a call myself. Mr. Bronson up in Kaslo just telephoned to say he happened to be talking to someone and found out what kind of meeting was going on the night of the fight, the night Lazek was shot. The National Unity Party. One small name change away from being Nazis. It’s no wonder Lazek got into a fight. Now, did one of them shoot him?”
Ames pushed himself off the door jamb and looked at his watch. “It will be quitting time in about an hour. We could go up to Kaslo and interview some of those people the barkeep said were at the table when the fight broke out. By the way, before you ask, O’Brien did call around to any place that would fix up a man with injuries, but no one saw any sign of a badly beaten man. That wouldn’t be unusual, though. Apparently there are plenty of fights and people simply let nature take its course.”
“Charming. Right, go start the car. And while we’re there, let’s explore the waterfront. If he was shot down there, there might still be traces of it.”
Lane pulled up to the front of the Balfour store. The black Lab peeled himself off the grass and came to say hello, his tail wagging lazily.
“Too hot for the road today?” Lane asked, rubbing behind his ears, and then gave Bales a wave as he came out. “I’ve just stopped by on my way to Vanessa’s. Is there anything I can take her?”
“Now that’s funny. She’s usually called me by now. I’ve kind of added her in to my deliveries since that boy went off with her car. I haven’t had time to check back. Better take her some milk at least. And I could use some eggs if she’s got them. Let me give you some cardboard flats.�
� He turned and went back into the shop while Lane waited. The gas in the pump gleamed a red-gold colour in the sun. The smell reminded her of the airplane hangers during the war, and even further back, of her father’s car in the garage. Just when it was occurring to her that smelling gas, however nostalgic, was no more healthy than smelling sulphur insecticide, Fred came out with a pile of flats. Lane opened the door and he piled them on the seat next to her.
“I’m a bit worried about her,” Lane said. “She’s having to cope all on her own. The last time I saw her she looked exhausted.”
“She ought to hire someone to help her. I’d like to give that boy of hers a piece of my mind.”
“Well, we don’t know if he ran off or if he met with an accident somewhere. I know she’s having a dreadful time because she doesn’t know.”
Fred nodded and shrugged. “Fair point. But he’d been getting . . . I don’t know what you’d call it . . . too big for his boots, maybe, lately. He tried to throw his weight around in here one time, implying I was shortchanging them. I was pretty surprised. It wasn’t like him.”
“How recently was that?” Lane asked.
“Just in these last three months. I got the feeling he’d fallen in with some new people. He never used to be like that. Nice boy, a bit shy even. I don’t say anything to her, of course, but that’s why I don’t think anything has happened to him.”
This matched the direction of Lane’s thoughts. On the way down the hill she reviewed her own suspicions that Vanessa either knew where he was or at least knew he wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere.
“What do you want?” Vanessa offered this with no preliminaries. She looked awful, Lane thought. Gaunt, hair unbrushed, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. She was standing on the top step by the front door, and when Lane came forward she sat down abruptly, as if she could no longer hold herself up.
Lane put the egg cartons she was carrying on the roof of her car and hurried to where Vanessa sat, her face in her hands.
“Goodness, Mrs. Castle! Can you get up? Let’s get you inside.” Lane supported her to rise, feeling how close to the surface her ribs were, and led her inside the house. Surprisingly the kitchen was not a mess, but then Lane realized that it was probably because Vanessa was making no effort to eat. The stove was out, and Lane contemplated having to collect kindling and wood to get it going for the cup of tea that seemed so desperately required here.
“Listen, why don’t you come along to mine? You can have a nice hot bath and I can make you a meal,” Lane said.
For the first time, Vanessa looked up at her, her eyes wide. “No! No! I . . . I have to stay here . . . I shouldn’t leave.”
Lane sat down and took Vanessa’s hands. “What’s going on? I know you’ve been terribly worried, but you’ve been coping. Have you heard something about Carl?”
Vanessa snatched her hands back. “No! Why do you say that? No. Of course not.”
She’s lying, Lane thought, and she’s frightened. “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened,” she said gently.
Vanessa looked out the window and angrily wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. “My father was a big-shot politician,” she said, surprising Lane with this turn in the conversation. “Men like that think they can control everything. They’ve been on top so long it doesn’t even occur to them that they can’t. But he couldn’t control me, no sir. I was seventeen and I was going to do what I wanted. He couldn’t think of a way to get me back in the harness, so rather than try and lose, he wiped me off the face of the earth. But it didn’t matter to me. I was in love, and I made Robert love me.” She laughed without mirth. “See. A chip off the old block. I thought I could control everyone too. I thought when I left my father’s house I was free from everything I despised. His hypocrisy, his control. I was on fire with happiness. But you know, it was awful almost from the beginning, only I was never going to admit it. I would never have given my father the satisfaction. Then I had Carl. Probably the only real happiness I’ve known. When Robert died I felt peace for the first time. I thought I had finally made it. Just me and Carl. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Lane nodded. “I think so. Vanessa, you know where he is, don’t you. Something’s happened.”
Vanessa turned away and then got up, went to the sink, and began to run water, and then turned it off and looked at Lane. “That two-bit henchman of Lorimer’s has been around asking for him. Is that who Carl got mixed up with? I don’t know where he is. He won’t tell me. But he’s done something terrible.”
The bartender at the hotel where Darling and Ames had met Bronson leaned over and indicated with a nod of his head the men who had been present the night of the fight. “That’s the usual group. They’ve started drifting back here. There were more there that night. Some out-of-towners who haven’t been back since. I think they must have been part of the meeting. You know, I can see men meeting to get a union going. Lord knows, they could use one, but—”
Darling wasn’t interested in his views on working conditions. “Can we use the ladies lounge to talk to these people again?”
“Go right ahead.”
Darling thanked him and nodded at Ames, who approached the table. The men had long since stopped talking and had been watching the two policemen warily. One of them made to leave. Ames pulled out his card. “Constable Ames, Nelson police. Would you mind sitting down, sir? We need to ask you all a few questions about an incident here a couple of weeks ago. Inspector Darling is in the ladies’ lounge. Sir, will you go along? I’ll sit here and keep you two company.” He smiled genially. “Shouldn’t take long. Routine questions.”
The man he’d indicated stood up reluctantly. He looked at his two companions, perhaps for support, but both had their hands around their mugs of beer and were looking down.
“Well, now,” Ames said. “Were you two here the night of the fight?”
The two men looked at each other now, as if they had both realized their dilemma at once. They did not know what their companion was saying to Darling in the other room. The outside door of the bar opened, and two men in coveralls came in and made straight for the bar, cursing good-naturedly about the heat of the day. Ames’s companions watched them and then looked down again.
“It’s best if you tell me. We’re investigating a murder, and we suspect that fight had something to do with it. We don’t have a suspect yet, so you look as good as any.” One of the men looked up sharply, his face red.
“What do you mean, a murder? No one died in that fight.”
“Ah,” Ames said. “Good. Why don’t you tell me about it.” He took out his notebook and smiled. “Your name?”
“Weaver. This is Heppwith. Nothing to do with us.”
“Excellent. First name, Mr. Weaver?”
“Tim.”
“Good. Now, tell me about that night.” Ames sat coolly poised with his notebook in hand. “Did you attend the meeting?”
Weaver snorted. “We did. A load of nonsense. I was overseas fighting bastards like that. I looked around and I couldn’t believe how people were sucking it up. We all came back here after, and these two other fellows sat at our table and kept up the propaganda. I’d had about enough and was going to put up an argument, when Heppwith here called over a man who was just coming in. What did you call him? Something with a K. ‘Hey, come over here. You’re German, you should join us.’”
“Did you know this man, Mr. Heppwith?” Ames asked.
Heppwith looked toward the door, shifting his chair, as if he were going to leave. “Klaus? Sort of. That speaker was talking sense,” Heppwith added, looking disdainfully at his companion. “I was overseas too, and Canada wasn’t the same place when we got back.”
“And what made you think Klaus would be interested?” Ames asked.
“He was German. Of course he would be. At least I though
t so. But he went crazy. He pushed me nearly off my chair, told me I was sick, and stormed off. Now if you don’t mind, I don’t have time for this.” He stood up and started toward the door.
Ames was up in a flash. “Sit down, Mr. Heppwith. I see you have the remains of a bruise on your cheek. Did you get that in the fight?”
Heppwith scowled, and Weaver looked at him and seemed to signal him with his eyebrows. Ames waited.
Weaver finally spoke. “You gotta tell them sometime.” He turned to Ames. “He got beat up pretty bad. That Klaus guy was bloody crazy. I told him not to go after him.”
They were interrupted by the return of Darling and the man he’d been speaking to. “Who’s next?” Darling asked.
“I think we’d better speak to Mr. Heppwith here, sir. He seems to be in a hurry to leave. He’s the one who got into the fight with our victim.”
“Excellent. Would you be good enough to wait?” Darling said to the other man. “If you’ll come with me, Mr. Heppwith, and you can join us, Constable.”
“I’ll tell you something, Constable,” Weaver said, as Ames was about to follow Darling, “I went home after that fight. It’s ridiculous that we just fought a war against fascism, and now we got people fighting over the same rubbish right here on our streets.”
“Why do you still drink with them?” Ames asked.
“Aw . . . Heppwith is a good man. He’s frustrated and unhappy. Wife left him, he’s not crazy about the work. He feels like he fought hard and works hard and has nothing to show for it. He got a head wound at Dieppe and lost a lot of buddies. He’s been a little short-tempered since then. He simply wants to blame someone. He’s been more down than usual lately. These guys from the meeting are blowhards. I can’t believe anyone is going to take them seriously. I surely don’t want to be one more person who abandons him.”
“Do you think Heppwith went looking for Klaus Lazek after being beaten so badly, later on, say?”