The Recipe Cops

by Keith Weaver

  Skirting the edge of the strawberry patch, he came to the stream and then turned north. The stream was in good flow from the previous day’s storm. Birds were singing in the poplars on the other side of the stream, Reggie was galloping everywhere at once, it seemed, stopping every few minutes to take a ritual drink of water. At the north end of the meadow, still several hundred metres distant, was the edge of a pine forest, where the white pines grew in clumps, neighbouring clumps being separated by about ten or so metres of sparse grass. The two of them, man and dog, wandered into the pines, and were immediately engulfed by the quiet and peace that these large trees commanded. The trees swayed and whispered. The needles underfoot yielded to Sanford’s step and made no sound. The air wafted scents of terpenes, some light and volatile, others as heavy and resinous as the sticky pine gum that was so hard to remove from hands and clothes, and that made you think twice about climbing a pine tree.

  Sanford and Reggie wandered for about half an hour through the pines, Sanford saying nothing, Reggie rushing about, snuffling, and uttering an authoritative bark at the odd squirrel or chipmunk. In a large clearing, a flat rock, covered in cool moss, presented an inviting seat, which Sanford accepted. Reggie was circling energetically to one side, literally following his nose.

  “Reggie! Time to go home!”

  Sanford struck out, knowing that Reggie would always be aware of where he was, and headed to the west before turning south into what he knew was a large stand of juniper. The sun, the wind, the pine pollen, the scents rising to meet him from the grasses and flowers, these had the same effects on him that he remembered as a youth, banishing worries or concerns, burnishing a positive view of the world, and above all giving an immense feeling of peace. They entered the stand of juniper, Reggie off somewhere to the right, not trying to be quiet or subtle at all. The air here was filled by a much richer odour, more monoterpenes, having that intoxicating camphor-like scent typical of junipers.

  The juniper stand yielded to a strip of grassland, which then led straight into the arc of pines within which rested his and Joe’s great stone table.

  “We’re home, Reggie! Come on! Time to clean you up!”

  Reggie bounded past Sanford, ears flopping in the way that probably reflects a dog’s view of heaven, and galloped round the end of the house toward his kennel. When Sanford reached him, he had slobbered a drink from his bowl, throwing water everywhere, and sat panting in blissful exhaustion.

  Apart from being a mess, he had three porcupine quills sticking from the fur around his nose.

  “Okay, Reggie. Let me get the scissors, and we’ll take those out.”

  Reggie gave a suppressed yelp as each one came free. There was then the rough hand-combing, to get out the worst of the twigs, mud, and grass, following which Sanford settled down to the job of dislodging all the remaining woodland hitchhikers Reggie had picked up over the past hour and a half. It took almost twenty minutes of combing and brushing, but when they were finished, Reggie’s coat shone and Sanford had four large clumps of dog fur, mixed with meadow and forest debris.

  “How about a spell on the porch, Reggie?” and within five minutes Sanford, now in shorts and a T-shirt, and Reggie, still sporting his canine dinner jacket, were relaxing over lemonade and kibble, respectively. Sanford checked his watch: five fifteen. There was still work to do on Joe’s files, but the afternoon was almost gone, and there was no good reason to break the glow that surrounded the two of them.

  Life was good.

  The rest of the afternoon and early evening drifted by – the preparation of Sanford’s risotto, its slow consumption, once again on the porch in Reggie’s company, and then three hours spent rereading parts of Marshall Berman.

  Closing his book, Sanford resolved that tomorrow he would dig into the remaining files in Joe’s “Personal” compartment. A glass of Balvenie knocked away the last of the chocks, and the good ship Sanford glided effortlessly down the slipway into a deep sleep.

  Twelve

  In the middle of the night, Sanford’s cellphone rang.

  It was July 8, six days after Joe’s death.

  “Hello”, Sanford mumbled blearily into the device. “Hello.”

  “Hello. James Sanford?”

  “Yes, this is Jim Sanford. Who, who am I speaking to?”

  “Mr. Sanford, this is Sergeant William Howell at Metro Police. I will come straight to the point, Mr. Sanford. There’s been an accident.”

  Sanford struggled to peer through the fog bank that filled his head. “Wait a moment. Wait a moment. Why isn’t someone here in person to tell me this? And how do I know you’re with the police?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry Mr. Sanford, but we thought it best to get the information to you as soon as we could.” He then gave Sanford his shield number, asked him to call Metro Police 52 Division, ask for Inspector Meloni, and have Meloni confirm the call. This operation took Sanford about three minutes, then Howell came back on the line.

  “It’s your wife, Mr. Sanford.”

  “You mean my ex-wife.”

  “Sorry sir. I wasn’t sure.”

  “What about Helen?”

  “I’m afraid she has died in St. Michael’s Hospital, a little more than half an hour ago.”

  “Died? How? What happened? How did you get my number?”

  “Your address and telephone number were in a notebook in her jacket. Are you in Toronto, sir?”

  “No. I’m in Stanley Falls.”

  There was a delay at Howell’s end.

  “Near Peterborough”, Sanford added.

  “Can you come to Toronto right away, sir?”

  “Yes I can”, but then Sanford suddenly panicked. “Julia! My daughter! What about Julia? Is Julia all right?”

  “Yes sir, she is all right. A police officer and a social worker are with her at your wife’s condo. She’s fine, sir. Can you come to Toronto? I can meet you wherever you like.”

  “Er, yes. I will come. Meet me in the lobby of my condo building”, and Sanford gave the sergeant the address.

  “I’m leaving now”, Sanford said and put the phone down. His hands were shaking. Looking at the clock, he understood the reason everything was dark: it was quarter to three in the morning.

  Sanford threw on some clothes, pocketed his cellphone, made sure he had his wallet and keys, grabbed the small notepad from its spot by the phone in the kitchen, where he had jotted down local numbers, and raced out to his car. The unexpected wrenching news about Helen had once more raised spectres, and Sanford had to work hard to keep the black thing under the manure pile from rising up before him in a ghastly victory dance.

  There was no traffic on the roads, and the trip to the city was the fastest he had ever done. If there happened to be some eager young buck out there with a radar, well, tough. His travel time to the condo was a good three quarters of an hour shorter than anything he had previously clocked. He parked in his spot in the garage of his condo building and took the elevator to the lobby. A large police officer was standing, hands behind his back, next to the window just inside the main door.

  “Sergeant Howell?” Sanford demanded rather brusquely, checking the shield number on the officer’s cap.

  “Yes, sir. Mr. Sanford.”

  “I want to see my daughter right away. You can explain to me what happened on the way there.”

  Howell nodded, and they walked quickly outside to his cruiser.

  There was still very little traffic about, Howell drove quickly but competently, and without needing his siren, and they stopped in the turning circle in front of Helen’s building. During the short ten-minute trip, Howell described in brief but neutral terms what had happened. She was found in a park, barely alive. She looked like she had dressed in a rush. Some items of her clothing were found in a handbag that was lying next to her. Howell said that she had been rushed to hospital, but …

  “Who found her?” Sanford asked.

  “It was a night owl walking his dog.”

&
nbsp; Howell said that they didn’t have more details than that at the moment.

  Images of Helen flashed before him, and the knowledge of all he had lost with her struck him again like a body blow. Sanford realized then just how deeply he still had loved Helen, even after all the betrayals, after all the screaming and acrimony.

  “How much does my daughter know?” Sanford asked suddenly.

  “Nothing. Unless the social worker has told her a bit over the past couple of hours. I expect they would have sedated her. I understand that she was asleep when the building administration staff let us into your wife’s – ex-wife’s – condo.”

  “Was my daughter alone?”

  “I believe so. Yes, sir.”

  The elevator doors opened, and they walked the short distance to the door to Helen’s condo.

  The place was in chaos. The sink was piled in dirty dishes. Clothes were scattered over the floor, and it looked as though nobody had cleaned any surface in weeks. A police officer sat on a cleared half of the couch and was working or making notes on a tablet. She stood as Sanford and Howell entered. She introduced herself as Constable Douglas, and before Sanford could utter the question clamouring to be asked, she assured him that Julia was fine. The social worker had given her a mild sleeping tablet and was with her now in the bedroom.

  The bedroom was in no better shape than the rest of the condo. Used tissues and open containers of makeup littered the table of the small, cheap vanity set. The clothes hamper had dirty blouses, skirts, T-shirts, and undergarments spilling from it, and a small pile of obviously soiled clothes lay in the corner next to it. The clothes closet was open, clothes hung askew from hangers, and some had dropped to the floor.

  The sheets and pillows were grey.

  The social worker sat quietly in a chair next to the bed. In the bed, Julia lay sleeping in the innocence of youth, her blond locks spread in charming confusion over the pillow. The social worker, whose ID tag said she was J. Bennett, was probably in her late thirties, and in a face that looked very tired, two bright blue, solicitous, deeply sympathetic eyes met Sanford’s. She rose, put a finger to her lips as a shushing signal, and led Sanford quietly out of the room.

  “She’s fine. I’m guessing you are Mr. Sanford. She awoke when we arrived, and she was confused but not upset. We thought it best not to tell her anything, and I gave her a sleeping pill almost immediately. She knows nothing.”

  The rest of the condo was just as much a shambles. The bathroom was disgusting. The spare room, which was where Julia normally slept, was neat, but the covers on the bed were turned down, and the bed looked as though it had been slept in.

  “Did you wake her up, here in this room, when you arrived?” Sanford asked the social worker, and apologized immediately because it had come out sounding like an accusation.

  “No. We found her in the bed where she is now. It looks as though she left her own bed and went into her mother’s room.”

  And her fucking mother wasn’t there, Sanford said accusingly to himself, and immediately regretted the thought. Helen had been ill.

  Helen’s few visits to doctors had led nowhere, possibly because she was not forthcoming, possibly because the health system was too obtuse either to see there was a problem or to do anything about it. Helen fairly obviously was in denial, at least it seemed obvious to Sanford. He could not convince her to get help. And now this had happened. He raged inwardly against himself and the entire world.

  Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

  Sanford made an effort to calm down. He looked around the condo slowly, hoping that his examination would be interpreted by the social worker as a critical review that yielded a “Fail” verdict.

  “This place is a mess”, Sanford began, keeping his voice as matter-of-fact as he could. “How could you have let my daughter continue living in – this?” and he swept his arm around indicating the whole sorry jumble. “Why didn’t somebody contact me?”

  The social worker’s reply bore the signs of professional patience and human exhaustion. “The condo is indeed a mess, Mr. Sanford, but it’s not unhealthy. It’s not infested by anything. There’s plenty of good food in the fridge. Your daughter is clean, she shows no signs of being undernourished, and there are certainly no signs of abuse. We can’t take away someone’s children just because they’re bad housekeepers.”

  Her reply was so measured, and so full of sympathy, that Sanford’s incipient anger was deflated right away. She was right. The important focus now was the future, however unsavoury the past might have been.

  “How long will she sleep?” he asked.

  “Probably only three or four hours more. She should awaken at about eight o’clock.”

  “When she’s awake, I want to take her out of this, this chaos, and to my condo. We can have breakfast there together. I assume there will be some paperwork …”

  “Yes. I have it here. All you need to do is sign. We can have a more formal meeting later to fill in all the details. I just need two pieces of identification from you, Mr. Sanford.”

  These minor formalities took no time, then it was finished.

  “I’ll stay around until she’s awake”, the social worker offered.

  “You don’t need to, thanks. You probably have other work to do.”

  “I have home visits to make, but I can’t start those for another three hours at least.”

  Sanford looked around once more. “Are all the places you visit as bad as this?”

  Bennett smiled weakly. “I only wish they were this good.”

  As though waking from a light sleep, Sanford said in sudden resolve, “I’m going to tidy up a bit.”

  He began in the sitting room, collecting newspapers and magazines and piling them onto an end table, then picked up all the dirty clothes, found a large black plastic bag under the sink, filled it and placed it in a hall closet. From the same closet, he drew out a broom and pan and gave the living and dining room floors a quick sweep. Finally, he spent half an hour washing the mountain of dishes that covered every surface in the kitchen and filled the sink to overflowing. Bennett quickly laid down her leather documents case and helped. When that was finished, Sanford found a small suitcase in a closet, and packed as many of Julia’s clean clothes as he could find. He also packed her small teddy bear, Abner.

  Sergeant Howell returned at that point, just finishing a call on his cellphone.

  “There is something we can do, Mr. Sanford, if you feel up to it.”

  Sanford gave him a quizzical look but said nothing.

  “We can go to the condo where we think your ex-wife was prior to being found in the park. There might be some things of hers there and if so we would like to keep them separate from everything else in the condo.”

  Sanford nodded mechanically.

  Howell drove them to the condo, which was in a new building on Adelaide Street. On the seventh floor, Howell broke the police seal on the door to unit 712, and pulled on latex gloves.

  “How did you know that Helen had been here?” Sanford asked.

  “One of our technical support guys noticed a cellphone number on the business cards that were in her handbag, and asked to have a look at the cellphone. When we found it wasn’t in her handbag, we used GPS to trace it here. It was found behind the sofa. Must have slipped down there at some point.”

  Howell let them into the condo.

  “Don’t touch anything sir. We can walk through the unit room by room. Let me know if you see anything you think might belong to your ex-wife.”

  The condo obviously was home to a single man. The walls were painted in strong colours of battleship grey and matte rust, the furniture was no-nonsense tinted glass, stainless steel, and leather. The dominant colours of the furnishings were black and rust. A high-end sound system and a flat-screen television dominated the living area, the floor was expensive parquet and there wasn’t a carpet in sight, the few pieces of art were hard-edged abstract or austere black, white, and grey prints of street scenes, winter
trees, and one of a demolition site at dawn.

  The bedroom was large and had an impressive view to the south. The bed was unmade. Howell opened the closet door, Sanford peered in and shook his head. There was nothing in the bathroom or kitchen that caught his attention.

  “There’s nothing of hers here that I recognize, Sergeant.”

  “Very good, sir. We can leave now.” And he began entering something into his cellphone.

  Sanford hesitated. He took one long last look around the large living-dining room. The artwork. The contrasting maroon and steel-grey walls. The brands of the sound equipment and TV. The three pictures that sat together on top of what looked like a sideboard. Howell was still busy with his cellphone and Sanford took advantage of Howell’s distraction. It took only a second for Sanford to capture the image using his cellphone.

  “Okay. Let’s get out of here, Sergeant.”

  As they walked back to the police cruiser, Sanford asked, “What did she die of?”

  “It looks as though she was strangled, but we’ll know more when all the evidence has been examined.”

  “What other evidence is there?” Sanford asked.