Glycerine

by Garry Ryan

  “I wish I’d been there to see that Muslim woman stop everything from getting out of hand. What was her name again?” Keely took a sip of coffee.

  “Fatima.”

  “Can you find out her last name for me?” Keely checked to see that the lid was tight on her coffee.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Lane looked over his right shoulder, signalled, and eased into the next lane.

  “She could turn out to be a valuable source if we have any problems in the future.”

  ×

  Sister and Mother of

  Afghanistan Medic

  Blow Bubbles

  Lisa Laughton was a medic killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. Her twin sister, Donna Laughton, and mother, Stacie Laughton, wanted to honour her memory.

  “Things were getting pretty heated in my neighbourhood after the murder of Shafina Abdula. My sister died because people used violence to solve their differences. I wanted to show the community there’s another option,” says Donna.

  Her solution was to modify two vans to blow bubbles near a pair of neighbourhood churches that were involved in a war of words.

  Earlier in the week, MLA Laura Poulin encouraged three women to walk on a Quran as an act of protest. Since then, Poulin has declined to respond to requests to explain her actions, but released a statement that says, in part, “The liberal media have blown this act of free expression out of proportion. Why aren’t the pundits looking into reports that radicals from the Islamic Centre defiled a Bible?”

  Laughton says, “Poulin’s actions only escalated a volatile situation. I hope the bubbles will encourage dialogue instead.”

  ×

  “So you read the article.” Nigel sat across from Lane at the coffee shop in Kensington.

  “I hope Donna is right about the bubbles getting people to talk,” Lane said.

  Nigel stood up. “You want another Rolo?”

  “Sure.” Lane reached into his pocket for money, but Nigel was already on his way to the counter. Lane’s phone beeped. He saw he had an e-mail message from Fibre. It said, “DNA has yet to confirm that the remains are John A. Jones. However, ballistics confirms that his rifle was used in two murders.”

  Nigel returned with two cups of coffee and a pair of chocolate cookies the size of dessert plates.

  Lane looked at the coffee and the cookies.

  “A bit of a treat by way of celebration.”

  Lane could hear the nervousness in his partner’s voice and decided to wait him out.

  “So, what did you want to talk with me about?” Nigel fidgeted in his chair, then looked around the coffee shop to see whether he recognized anyone.

  “Will you please relax?” Lane waited for eye contact.

  “I’m worried. You’re my last chance. I mean, Harper warned me you were my final stop. Then I pissed him off. I figured after this case was over he would want to turf me even though things worked out the way they did. I mean there was a fatality, but it was the bomber. It wasn’t one hundred percent successful, but you know, I think you prevented a huge disaster.” Nigel reached for his coffee.

  “Are you on something?” Lane broke a piece off his cookie.

  “No!” Nigel sat back with an open mouth.

  “First off, I didn’t prevent anything. We did what we did with the help of Keely, Harper, the Chief, Lori, Lacey, and a bunch of uniforms. Second, if I got another partner, then I would have to deal with Lori. You wouldn’t let that happen to me, would you?” Lane sat back and popped the chunk of cookie into his mouth.

  Nigel turned his head sideways and frowned at Lane. “Did you just say you still want to be my partner?”

  Lane covered his mouth as he chewed the cookie. “If you’ll have me.”

  Nigel sat back. “If I’ll have you?”

  Lane lifted his coffee, took a sip, and put the cup down. “If we’re still partners, then we need to get in touch with Miguel and let him know that Oscar’s killer is dead.”

  Nigel took out his phone and thumbed through a series of numbers. “Now?”

  “As soon as I finish my coffee.” Lane reached for his cup, picked up his spoon, and scooped up a serving of chocolate whipped cream floating atop the Rolo. He smiled as he put the cream in his mouth.

  Twenty minutes later, Miguel arrived outside of Higher Ground with two other men. Lane watched them through the window. Miguel parked a red Ford pickup across the street. The three of them jaywalked and went up the stairs. Inside the coffee shop, the men nervously looked around the packed room until Lane stood up and waved them over. The five of them managed to gather around the pizza-pan sized table with chairs borrowed from other tables.

  Lane studied the men’s hands. All three had thick fingers and rough palms. One had lost a pair of fingernails, and the flesh underneath was dark purple. As they shook hands and Miguel introduced them, Lane felt the power of their work in their fingers.

  “Mucho gusto.” Lane used the one phrase Nigel had time to teach him before they met Enrique and Ernesto.

  Miguel brought more coffee and sat down.

  Lane began to speak softly in English while Nigel translated. “We have the weapon that killed Oscar, and we have testimony from a witness who told us who shot him.” Lane waited while the men listened to Nigel’s translation.

  Miguel nodded.

  “The man who killed Oscar died on Friday. We wanted you to know this so that you can inform Oscar’s family.”

  After Nigel’s translated, Enrique turned to Lane. “Gracias.”

  Lane nodded as Enrique continued to speak.

  Nigel said, “Enrique is Oscar’s cousin. He will pass the information on to the family.”

  Most of the rest of the conversation was lost to Lane as the men began to speak in rapid Spanish with Nigel.

  Lane thought, I need to get home soon. I haven’t seen much of my family for more than a week.

  ×

  When he got home more than an hour later, there was a note on the table.

  Gone shopping for a new queen-sized

  bed for Christine and Dan.

  Love, Arthur.

  Roz and Scout sat on either side of him and looked up with take-me-for-a-walk eyes.

  He looked at the phone. The red light told him there was a message waiting.

  Roz went to the front door. Scout followed her. They sat there and looked at Lane. He went upstairs and changed into a pair of lightweight pants and a light nylon shirt. He shut off his phone and put it on top of the dresser.

  When he got back downstairs, he got the dogs leashed up and pulled on a pair of sandals. He stepped out the front door, down the stairs, and onto the sidewalk. The afternoon sun warmed his shoulders and face. The dogs tugged on their leashes. He followed their lead for a couple of steps, pulled back on the leashes, and waited for them to walk next to him. Roz settled in alongside while Scout continued to strain against the leash.

  Lane snapped the leash. Scout wheezed. He crouched low to the sidewalk and used his muffin-sized paws to grip the concrete. For the next three blocks, Lane tugged, then made Scout sit. The muscles at Lane’s elbow began to burn.

  Roz growled and snapped at Scout. The younger dog fell into step next to Lane.

  He smiled.

  “Hey!”

  Lane looked left toward the voice. He spotted Donna waving at him from behind her gate. Lane stood next to the vans with For Sale signs on their windshields.

  Roz sniffed the air.

  Lane thought, Man, I just wanted to go for a walk.

  “Can I offer you a cup of coffee and maybe some baklava?” Donna asked.

  Lane lifted the leashes and frowned.

  “Bring them along.” She opened the gate.

  Lane felt unaccountably anxious as he walked up the driveway, along the side yard, and through the open gate. He looked for a patch of shade where he could tie the dogs.

  “This is Fatima.” Donna pointed an open left hand at the woman who sat at the table on the tiled de
ck bordered by blue flowers. “She brought over some baklava.”

  “Lane.” He recognized Fatima as the woman who had stopped the boys tearing up the Bible in front of the Islamic Centre. Her black hair was cut short with a hint of red that glinted in the sunlight. Her eyes looked at Lane. He got the impression that she was sizing him up. Do I shake her hand? he thought as he tried to remember the proper etiquette for greeting a Muslim woman. “You’re not wearing the hijab?”

  “I wear it only at church.” She smiled and pointed at the table. “Try some baklava. I made it this morning. Mine is the best you’ll ever taste.”

  “What do you take in your coffee?” Donna asked.

  Lane looked at her and waited for someone to say Get your own damn coffee.

  Donna smiled. “I’m not gonna fix it for you. I just need to know what to bring out. And don’t expect me to get your coffee on a regular basis. This is a one-time offer.”

  “Milk and sugar, please.” He eyed a shady spot near the fence, untangled the leashes, and tied the dogs at separate fence posts.

  When he turned around, Donna set the coffee pot on a hot plate. Then she added an extra cup, a carton of milk, and a container of brown sugar. She smiled at Lane, nodded at the empty chair, and held out her hand. “Sit down.”

  Lane sat and studied the women while he inhaled the honey and almond aroma coming from the plate of baklava. He poured his coffee. “Anyone else?” Both women shook their heads. He put down the carafe before adding milk and sugar to his cup. He stirred and smiled at the colour of the coffee. He sipped and closed his eyes.

  “This is a good neighbourhood?” Fatima’s accent was flavoured with hints of Arabic, Spanish, and French.

  Lane nodded. “I like it.”

  “Fatima just made an offer on the place across the street, saw the vans out front, and knocked on my door.” Donna reached for a square of baklava, popped it in her mouth, covered it with her hand as she chewed, and glanced at Fatima. “That is so good.”

  Lane saw that both women had turned to observe him. He picked up a square, popped it in his mouth, and savoured the combination of delicate pastry, butter, honey, and almonds as it dissolved on his tongue. “Delicious!”

  Fatima clapped her hands and smiled.

  Donna sipped her coffee and closed her eyes.

  You’re a cop, sitting at a table with one woman you arrested and another who peacefully diffused a volatile situation. This could only happen in Canada.

  “You have children?” Fatima asked.

  Roz barked. Lane looked toward the gate.

  They heard a pair of sandals slapping up the driveway. Christine asked, “What are you and Scout doing here, Roz?”

  “Hi, Christine,” Lane said.

  Christine looked over the gate at the three of them and focused on Lane. “I was looking for you.”

  Donna waved her hand to beckon Christine. “Come on in. Want a cup of coffee?”

  “And some baklava?” Fatima asked.

  Christine opened the gate and closed it behind her.

  Lane pointed around the table. “This is Donna, and this is Fatima. Christine.”

  Donna pulled back a fourth chair. “Coffee?”

  “I’d better not.” Christine sat and turned to Lane. “There was a message on the phone.”

  Lane’s gut clenched as it reacted to the tension in Christine’s voice.

  “How many months pregnant are you?” Fatima asked.

  Christine turned on Lane. “You told them?”

  Lane shook his head. He noticed that both women looked at the empty ring finger of Christine’s left hand.

  “You are his wife?” Fatima asked.

  “What?” Christine glared at Lane.

  “Christine is my niece,” Lane said.

  “She lives with you?” Fatima asked.

  “Yes.” Lane looked at Christine to see if his answer would upset her.

  Fatima turned to Christine. “Where is your mother?”

  “In Paradise,” Christine said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. When did she die?” Fatima asked.

  Donna covered her mouth, her face turned red, and a sharp bark of laughter escaped. She dropped her hand, her mouth opened wide, and more laughter flowed as Fatima looked at her with shock and disbelief.

  Lane turned and recognized the expression on Fatima’s face. “Paradise is a polygamist community in the south of the province.”

  “Oh.” Fatima nodded and began to smile.

  “I’m sorry.” Donna grinned, took a deep breath, and pointed at Lane. “It’s just that you interrogated me the other day, and now you’re being interrogated.”

  Christine touched her uncle’s arm. “The phone message was from my mother.”

  Donna saw the look on Christine’s face. Her smile disappeared.

  “She said there’s no way she’s going to allow her grandchild to be brought up by a pair of homosexuals.” Christine clamped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes looked first to Fatima and then to Donna.

  Donna and Fatima looked at one another. Donna shrugged.

  Fatima turned to Christine. “Go on.”

  Lane thought, Well, Fatima, you wanted to know what kind of neighbourhood this is. You might as well know before you finalize the deal on the house.

  Christine asked, “What am I going to do?”

  “How did she find out so soon?” Lane asked.

  “I told one of my cousins about the baby.” Christine frowned and shook her head.

  Lane was caught in the unexpected silence of the moment. “What do you want to do?” He felt the eyes of the other women on him as he concentrated on his niece.

  “Have the baby. Finish school. Get a place of my own with Dan.” Christine waited for Lane’s reaction.

  “So who’s stopping you?”

  “Your sister wants to.” Christine’s eyes glanced at the baklava.

  “She may want to. The fact is that she can’t. Your age means you are legally entitled to make your own decisions. All she can do is scare you if you let her.” Lane opened his hands to invite a reply.

  “Will you help us?”

  “Of course I will. And so will Arthur and Matt.” It was his turn to frown.

  Fatima tapped Christine on the elbow with the plate of baklava. “Go ahead. It was what I craved when I carried my daughter. Now it’s her favorite.”

  Christine nicked a square, popped it in her mouth, and reached for another. “I’m so hungry.”

  “Here.” Fatima set the plate down in front of Christine. “Your baby is telling you to eat some more.”

  Donna stood up. “What would you like to drink? How about some water?”

  “Water would be great, please.” Christine popped the second square in her mouth and reached for a third.

  “There is one thing you can do for me,” Lane said.

  Christine turned to face him with her mouth full and her eyes wide.

  Perfect timing. Her mouth is full, and she can’t answer back. “I want you to stop changing the words on the sign at the Eagle’s Nest Church.”

  Christine blushed.

  “That was you?” Fatima asked.

  “We wouldn’t want you falling off a ladder in your condition.” Lane smiled.

  Christine put her hand over her mouth. “Who told you?”

  “You and Dan did. The pair of you make too much noise when you take the ladder out of the shed at night.” Lane reached for a piece of baklava and popped it in his mouth.

  Fatima sat back. “So you are the one. Everyone at the Islamic Centre wondered who was changing the words.”

  “Can this be our little secret?” Lane asked.

  Fatima nodded.

  Donna returned with a tall glass of water and a bowl of fruit. “Dig in, girl.”

  “You’re being very nice to me after I barged in here like a crazy person.” Christine reached for an apple.

  Donna pointed her finger at Christine. “I’m just returning a favo
ur.” She nodded in Lane’s direction. “Besides, something tells me we’re going to have lots to talk about in the near future. So take your uncle’s advice, take care of the baby, and stay off that ladder.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Doctors Wheeler and Shaker: thank you.

  Again, thanks to Tony Bidulka and Wayne Gunn.

  Thank you to John and Dave for the police procedural advice.

  Thank you to Colin for the chemical engineering consultations in the Co-Op parking lot.

  Mary, Alex, and Sebi: thanks for the Central Blends suggestions and feedback.

  Paul, Matt, Tiiu, Natalie, Cathy, and Leslie: thanks for all that you do.

  Karma, thank you for the Spanish translations.

  Thanks to creative writers at Nickle, Bowness, Lord Beaver-brook, Alternative, Forest Lawn, and Queen Elizabeth.

  Thank you to Stephen of Sage Innovations (www.garryryan.ca).

  Thank you to the people who run independent bookstores like Pages Books and Owl’s Nest Books in Calgary.

  Sharon, Karma, Ben, Luke, Indiana, and Ella: thank you for your love and support.

  Garry Ryan lives in Calgary, Alberta. He received a B.Ed. and a diploma in Educational Psychology from the University of Calgary, and taught English and Creative Writing to junior high and high school students until his retirement. The sixth Detective Lane mystery, Foxed, was published by NeWest Press in 2013.