Hungry Ghosts
Page 31
“Me?” She covered her mouth as she laughed. “Oh, no. I’m not an ‘ask rice’ woman.”
“So the whole thing was a scam? The empty place setting, the chopsticks? But why?”
The old woman smiled. “You misunderstand the reason I laughed. I am not the ‘ask rice’ woman. That’s Dr. Yeung.”
Ramirez realized that when Dr. Yeung had been talking to the old woman, she’d been giving her instructions, paying for whatever was in the package. He opened it cautiously. He half expected to find a vial of white grubs inside. Instead, there was a paper airplane, a paper suitcase, and paper credit cards, as well as paper dresses, paper high heels, cardboard tubes of lipstick, even paper condoms.
There was also a note from Dr. Yeung, scripted in tidy calligraphy:
To the Chinese, there is no greater good than to bury stray bones. Lu Tung-pin, the Immortal, exorcises demons. You can ask the hungry ghosts to stay away, if you wish, by using these. You can burn ghost money for a long life too, but you have to buy your own. The choice is yours.
“What is ghost money?” he asked the vendor.
“ ‘Hell money’ is what some call it,” the old woman said. “But I like to think of it as heaven money. It’s bad luck to give it to someone who’s alive. It’s funny, the company in China that makes it, their motto is to please customers in the next life. How much do you want? Ten billion? It only costs a few pesos. Heaven is cheap.”
Ramirez gave her a handful of domestic pesos and she handed him a stack of bills. One denomination was for a million dollars. On the back of the note was a picture of the Bank of Hell.
“Do you have any paper exit permits?”
The old woman laughed. “Ghosts don’t need them. They come and go wherever they want, whenever they want. Time isn’t something that concerns them, only us. Now, make sure to hold these in both hands when you put them in the fire. You have children? The little ones like the paper cars.”
69
Charlie Pike phoned Chief O’Malley from the airport. The clerk insisted Pike use her phone, waving off his protests that the call would be long distance. “Don’t worry about it, hon.”
“The Cuban authorities have been in touch with us already about Denise Labelle,” said O’Malley. “The RCMP are going down to pick her up and bring her back to Winnipeg for prosecution. As soon as Adam Neville heard she was in custody, that was enough for him to start talking about cutting a deal. The Crown says he has to plead guilty and agree to testify against her; otherwise, they can’t force him to, because of spousal immunity. There’s no evidence connecting her to any of the crimes without his evidence. It’s a good deal for him. A few years in jail instead of life. He’ll lose his medical licence, of course; that’s part of the package.”
“Did he say why he did it? Why he framed Sheldon?”
“He claims he didn’t know Denise had anything to do with these murders until he found her fingerprints on a compact in Gloria TwoQuill’s purse a few days before they went on their holidays. He says he was stunned. He left Cuba early to get away from her while he decided what to do. When he saw Maylene Kesler’s body, he realized he could make it look like the Highway Strangler had killed her too, and maybe protect Denise while he sorted things out. He decided to frame Sheldon when the opportunity presented itself. He thought you’d jump at the chance to close these files. He didn’t realize that you and Sheldon have a history.”
“Do you believe him? It could have been the two of them that did this together.”
O’Malley shrugged. “I expect they’ll point fingers at each other. It worked for Homolka and Bernardo.”
“I still don’t understand why she did it.”
“And you know what, Charlie? We probably never will. She’s as crazy as a coot, from what I can tell. Killing those women so she could get her husband’s attention? Frankly, the bigger problem it creates for us is with the dozens of murders she didn’t commit. Any half-decent defence lawyer is going to point to her whenever the task force turns up a suspect. I’m already trying to figure out how many convictions in Manitoba are going to be opened up because of Neville’s willingness to tamper with evidence.” He sighed. “Anyway, Charlie, it was good work you did up there. Well done, lad.”
Pike looked out the airport window as the bush plane taxied in. “I need to get going in a few minutes, Chief. My plane just landed. By the way, I think I found out the old man’s name. I’m pretty sure it’s Peter Hare. How did he make out while I was away? Is he all right?”
O’Malley smiled. “Now, don’t you worry; I’ve been taking care of Mr. Hare, and I got him to tell me his name while you were gone. We found him a spot in palliative care. They’ve started him on some damn good pain relief. For the first time in a long while, he’s feeling better.”
Pike was astonished. “How’d you get him into a hospital without any identification? And how did you find out his name?”
“Well, now, you know how persuasive I can be, Charlie. I told him I’d promised you I’d look after him, and that I had to do that properly or I’d lose face. He didn’t have an OHIP card. I don’t think he’d ever applied for health care. But your friend Chief Bill Wabigoon helped me work all that out. He called the Deputy Minister of Health and threatened to hold a press conference if an Ojibway elder froze to death because of some missing paperwork. The Odawa Friendship Centre is going to keep an eye on Mr. Hare too. They’re going to send someone over to talk to him about filing an Indian residential school claim. Apparently, he’s entitled to some money for each year he was there, although it seems he doesn’t want to say much about what happened.”
“That means a lot to me,” Pike said. “You looking out for him.” He wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand.
“It was the least I could do for you, son.”
70
The train was due to arrive in forty minutes. Inspector Ramirez couldn’t wait to see his wife, his children, to hear all about Edel’s games, to see the empty space in Estella’s smile where her baby tooth had fallen out.
The station wasn’t far from the ocean. He parked the car on a side street, retrieved the package of paper goods, and walked down to the beach. He removed his shoes and picked his way gingerly across the hot sand until he found a quiet spot away from any tourists. He kneeled down and dug a shallow pit with his fingers.
He felt Antifona’s presence before he saw her. She stood, facing the ocean, a cigarette held loosely in her fingers. She looked longingly towards Florida, to the future she would never have.
“I’m sorry, Antifona,” Ramirez said. He felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He stood and brushed the white sand from his pants. “I should never have picked you up that night. I made you a target.”
She held his eyes until he looked away. This ghostly traveller had come back to the past, not so much to help him with his investigation as to repair a relationship that was more important to her than her own life. The old woman was right: time had no meaning to the dead, only the living. But even for the dead, it seemed that love transcended time.
Ramirez thought about Dr. Yeung’s instructions. A long life—yes, of course, he wanted that. But he also wanted to never be in another situation where his visions resulted in someone’s death the way they had with Antifona. He thought for a moment about what to wish for. No more apparitions? A return to a happy marriage?
Without his ghosts, his life would go back to normal. He could stop questioning his health. Francesca would worry about him less.
Ramirez squatted on the sand. He held the paper money in both hands, the way the old woman had instructed. He put it down in loose stacks in the hole he’d dug, then the other paper goods. He set aside the tiny paper car he’d purchased for Edel. He wondered what the exchange rate was in heaven, what favours would be owed.
He lit a match and watched the edges of the bills curl and catch fire. He stood up.
Flakes of grey ash were captured by the evening breeze as the bits of paper went up in smoke and drifted skyward.
Antifona hiked up her skirt and waded into the ocean. The water lapped against her smooth brown thighs. She raised an eyebrow, inviting Ramirez to join her. He shook his head.
“It wasn’t Lorenzo’s fault that he didn’t show up,” Ramirez said. “The same men that killed you tortured him to death. He tried as hard as he could to protect you. That’s all he could think about, despite the pain. He planned to marry you; he even told them so. I think he’s out there, somewhere, hoping you’ll forgive him, so he can join you on the other side.”
Antifona’s shoulders relaxed. She smiled. She backed into the ocean, farther and farther, until the waves swept around her waist. She blew Ramirez a kiss and tossed her cigarette into the water. Then she turned away from him. He watched her walk into the ocean until her head disappeared from view.
The waves brought the cigarette butt to Ramirez’s feet, dragging it up and down the sand. He threw the butt on the embers, where it sizzled.
He stamped out the small pyre. Then he walked back to his car, eager to see his family.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s not an easy thing to switch publishers mid-series. I owe a huge debt of thanks to Chris Bucci for somehow managing to pull that off, and to Kevin Hanson of Simon & Schuster Canada for taking the bait. Simon & Schuster has been an absolute joy to work with and, while Alison Clarke is no longer with them, she made me feel right at home. I’m deeply grateful.
My father, Roddie Blair, to whom this book is dedicated, died in the fall of 2013, just shy of his ninety-eighth birthday. He always had a book in his hand. He didn’t care what the genre was as long as it was well written. I’ll never forget arriving at his funeral service in Aurora to find flowers from Simon & Schuster, thanks to Alison. It’s that kind of thoughtfulness that characterizes, and continues to characterize, the entire organization. It’s extraordinary, in these often dark days for publishers, to find one with such a big heart and boundless optimism. I know exactly how lucky I am.
I had always wanted to write a book about an art heist and that’s how this story originally started; although, as usual, the characters decided to take things in a different direction.
But because of the efforts of some wonderful friends—Ottawa artist Sharon VanStarkenburg; Sharon Louden, senior critic for the New York Academy of Art; and David Thomas—around twenty talented artists have offered to create works of art based on their impressions of Hungry Ghosts. We’re going to hold an art exhibition as part of the book launch. These artists range from those who work with encaustic to watercolour and from glass art to graffiti. I can’t wait to see what they come up with. It’s going to be amazing. Thank you all.
I also want to thank my external readers, Debbie Hantusch, Bill Schaper, and Debbie Levy, for pointing out plot gaps and holes in the story without reducing me to a puddle of insecurity. Thanks also to Guillermo Martinez-Zalce, who helped me out whenever I wasn’t sure of a Spanish word’s meaning or spelling. I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Alexandra Sanchez for her guidance in all things Cuban. Thanks also to former CSI and fellow author Tom Adair for helping me research the forensic use of blowflies.
Alex Schultz, my brilliant editor, worked his usual magic. This is our third book together now; I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else. I very much appreciate that Simon & Schuster allowed us to carry on that relationship. Any errors left after Alex’s rigorous editing are mine and mine alone.
One final note. Shortly after I finished writing Hungry Ghosts, in October 2012, there was a story in the Ottawa media about a crow named Walter that was rescued as a baby by an Ottawa family. Walter developed a very special relationship with their young son, who insisted that he and Walter often talked together. Walter often accompanied him to school and kept a watchful eye from the treetops. Sometimes, the boy said when he was sad, he would tell Walter his secrets because he knew Walter wouldn’t tell anyone else.
Just sayin’.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PEGGY BLAIR was a lawyer for more than thirty years. She is the author of the award-winning and critically acclaimed Inspector Ramirez mysteries The Beggar’s Opera and The Poisoned Pawn. She lives in Ottawa.
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ALSO BY PEGGY BLAIR
FICTION
The Beggar’s Opera
The Poisoned Pawn
NONFICTION
Lament for a First Nation
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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ISBN 978-1-4767-5794-0
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