Flush

by Sky Curtis

  ON MONDAY MORNING, MERCIFULLY NOT hung over, I dutifully thought of my three things—green leaves, large hunks of granite, my washing machine—and shuffled off to the bathroom. I didn’t know if the exercise of feeling grateful would help me stop drinking, but I sure felt a little happier when I woke up. What a crabbola I’d been. For years. I stood under the shower for an extra minute, savouring the soft feel of the cascade. One thing about gratitude, it sure made you feel more present in the here and now.

  I hummed as I swiped some eye shadow across my lids and got dressed. I almost danced down the stairs. Yeah, I felt different. I poured myself a small bowl of granola, and then picked out the almonds. Hmmm, this was different. Usually in the morning I got annoyed at my innocent little bowl of granola and ranted at the stupid food companies. Didn’t they know tons of people were allergic to nuts? Why didn’t they cater to this demographic? It was hardly a niche market. Nut allergies were rampant. Every morning I raged as I picked out the infuriating almonds. But not today. Today I wasn’t bothered by the almonds. I put in my spoon and crunched away, enjoying every tidbit as I looked out the window into the back yard. Lucky was barking at a squirrel.

  I had had this allergy to almonds since I was little, and thank heavens I had a controllable reaction. Sure, it could be serious, if I didn’t get to an inhaler in time, but there was a window of five or ten minutes where if I got to my inhaler I would be as right as rain in about half an hour after a good deep puff. I might have an itchy throat or teary eyes for a bit, but all that would disappear. I was so fortunate, unlike some people whose allergy to peanuts or wasp stings could kill them. Those poor people. Imagine, walking along the road enjoying the sunshine, being stung by a wasp and then BAM, you’re grabbing at your throat, unable to breath. The panic must be terrible.

  Suddenly my hand stopped its journey to my mouth. Radcliffe had had his hand half way up to his throat. His profile said he was allergic to wasp stings. Was this the cause of his death? He’d been stung by a wasp? Was this what was in his profile that couldn’t be seen? Was that why it had been deleted? The murderer didn’t want the police to know that he was allergic to wasps? So his death would look like a suicide or an accident? Did the murderer know that I had read the profile? Was I in danger?

  Despite sitting in the bright sunlight shining through the kitchen window, my hands turned to ice. I’d had an anxiety attack years ago when Trevor had died, and it had started with freezing cold hands. Eventually they had gone completely numb. I began to pant, terror coursing through my veins. Would I be killed, too? And then I slowed myself down. If I kept up like this I would surely have a full-blown attack. Think, Robin, think. And breathe slowly.

  Okay, I was in danger if Radcliffe had told the person who wanted to kill him that he was using the internet to find dates. If that person hacked into his profile and read it, they would know Todd had written that he was allergic to wasps. And it followed if that person then read on the messaging feature of the site that Todd and I had connected, then I truly was in danger, because I would know about the allergy. That was a lot of “if’s” but, nonetheless, my photograph would be on his site because it was part of my profile. All that person had to do was follow Radcliffe to our date at Starbucks, which would have been documented in meetyourmatch’s messaging board, and then follow me home to find out where I lived. Had I noticed anyone suspicious that night in the cafe? Seen anything untoward? The coffee shop had been so crowded. It would have been impossible to notice. Besides I was preoccupied. The last thing on my mind while I sipped my herbal tea was looking for a murderer. But a murderer could easily have been there.

  Was the murderer England? He had accosted me after I’d left. He had been there, watching us. He’d said he was following Radcliffe, but maybe he was following me. Did he start out pretending he was following Radcliffe and then doubled back to follow me? No, it couldn’t be. Could it? No, I believed he was following Radcliffe. His narrative sounded real. The details were sort of real. There was that business about the key fob, but then, I truly believed he was creating a web of lies to throw me off.

  But had someone followed me home?

  My spoon clattered into the bowl. My fingers were now tingling so badly I could barely feel them. My chest was constricting and my vision was fading, the room becoming dark. I was heading for a full-on faint. I shoved my head between my knees and told myself to breathe deeply. I was safe. Nothing bad was going to happen. Slowly I felt the blood returning to my hands and the light-headed feeling dissipated. I carefully sat up and looked at my half eaten bowl of granola. I’d lost my appetite. Although this in itself was a phenomenon, it spoke volumes about how deeply I was rattled. I felt fear burning on my skin.

  I had figured out the murder weapon. It must have been a wasp. And I was the only one who knew. It was the one detail from his profile that I didn’t remember when I was talking to the police or Doug. The killer had deleted the profile so this bit of knowledge wouldn’t be known.

  But I knew it. What I didn’t know was if the wasp venom was the type that decomposed rapidly in blood, leaving no trace. According to crime shows on TV there were some poisons that were undetectable. Would the coroner be able to pick up the small bit of venom in Todd’s blood? Maybe the coroner could ascertain that Todd had died from a wasp sting. But what the coroner couldn’t do was prove that the wasp was used as a murder weapon. She could easily rule it was an accidental death.

  I was certain this had been murder. Especially after van Horner’s attack. And I would figure it all out, even though my brain cells had taken a beating from my drinking binge last night after Sunday dinner with my kids. What did I know about wasps? I swam through the cloudy waters in my head. Not much, it turned out, but one thing did float to the surface: wasps didn’t fly in the dark.

  How do you use a wasp as a murder weapon? Think, Robin, think. Someone could have planted a wasp in Todd’s room, perhaps in his bed. Right, that was it. Someone snuck in to his condo and put the wasp on the bed, turned out the light, and then left, hoping for the best. Hoping the wasp would stay right where it had been put in the dark. Todd would have lain down in his bed, likely on the wasp, got stung, and then died.

  But wait. I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. It could have been an accidental death. Maybe a sleepy wasp had been on his clothing when he came in Thursday night. Yeah, one that had landed on him during the day. He had lain down on the bed fully dressed and the wasp, feeling trapped, stung him. So, maybe the whole thing was just an accidental death.

  No, neither of these two scenarios could be right. First of all, putting a wasp on a bed was too unreliable. If I were a murderer and wanted someone dead, I would make sure nothing could go wrong. Wasps didn’t fly at night, but they crawled. There would be no guarantee that a wasp would stay on a bed right where it had been placed. And no guarantee that Todd would lie on it either. Secondly, no normal wasp would be on clothing after dark. As soon as the sun started going down all wasps head home.

  No, the wasp hadn’t been planted in his bed and it wasn’t accidentally on his clothes. Plus, someone went to great effort to delete Radcliffe’s profile and why would someone want to do that if it was an accidental death? I was becoming more and more certain that the wasp had been used as a murder weapon.

  I kept coming back to the same question: how do you use a wasp as a murder weapon?

  Maybe someone had planted a wasp inside his jacket. That would make more sense than putting it on his bed. Or it coming in from outside on his clothing. If I were looking to kill someone with a wasp sting, I would try to maximize the chances of the wasp actually biting the victim. A wasp on a bed could easily scrabble away. A wasp trapped in a piece of clothing that the victim was likely to put on would be a far better bet. A jacket would be perfect. Now I was making some sense.

  Planting a wasp in a jacket that a person wasn’t wearing would be pretty easy, too. One could sidle up to the jacke
t if it was draped over the back of a chair, like Todd’s had been at Starbucks, for example, and simply slip the wasp into a pocket. But I should consider other options. It could be trapped in a sleeve, or the jacket’s lining. I thought about these scenarios. No, the pocket made the most sense. A wasp could escape from a sleeve. And getting one inside a lining would require scissors to cut open a hole and then forcing the wasp into the hole. Too tricky. Right, the most likely scenario was putting the wasp in a pocket and then making sure the pocket flap was folded over the opening to trap it. Perfect. The probability of it biting the victim once the jacket was put on was pretty high. If the person put his hands in his pockets. Not everyone did that. But I had seen Todd do just that. While he was standing in line. My bets were on the pocket.

  And he certainly had been carrying a jacket, a light-weight summer navy blue blazer. It had been draped over his arm when he walked in, he hung over the back of his chair while we had our hot drinks, and it was slung over his shoulder when he left Starbucks. I could see it clearly in my mind’s eye, the jacket jouncing on his back as he sauntered away from me. He’d hooked it over his thumb, like a cool guy in a TV commercial for deodorant.

  But how would a murderer transport a wasp? It would have to be in something small, something concealable. Something with a lid. Something it couldn’t sting through. I rummaged around in my noggin for various containers. A pill bottle would be perfect. Yes! One could carry a wasp in a pill bottle, say, and then easily shake the wasp out into a pocket, and then pat down the flap, trapping it. I couldn’t remember if his blazer pockets had flaps. Probably.

  But when was the next time I saw the jacket? At his condo? God I hated my memory. Yes, I think it was hanging up in his condo. Yes it was. Neatly on a wooden hanger in the closet inside the front door. I remembered. It was one of those expensive hangers that have an arch to protect the way the shoulders fell. Right. I remember checking the buttons up close to see if they were RCYC buttons. They were. Had I seen flaps on the pockets? I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t noticed. I would have to let that question go. Most blazer pockets had flaps and I would have to assume his did too.

  But when had he been stung? I guess the question was when had he put the jacket on after leaving the Starbucks? If he hadn’t worn it at all, then the jacket was off the hook as the wasp vehicle. How could I find this out? Jack England would know. Jack had followed him, perhaps, from the Starbucks to his condo. If I believed him. That business about the key was pretty questionable. Was Jack actually there? Maybe it was Jack who had planted the wasp. Nah, I would have recognized him in the coffee shop. Besides, Jack had been a crime reporter for yonks. He worked with the police. When he felt like it. He wasn’t involved in this. Couldn’t be. As much as I didn’t like him, or maybe I did, I came to the conclusion he was just a rabid reporter, looking for a story. He was not a murderer.

  Should I ask Jack about the jacket? Hmm. Jack about the jacket. My mind stalled on this rickety phrase for a minute or two. It sounded like train wheels clattering on rails. I thought about the tracks over my lips. Old. Fat. Alkie. No, no, don’t go there, pay attention Robin. Your life is in danger. Focus.

  I knew my next moves had to be very careful. I didn’t want to get dead. Hell no. Not after feeling so good this morning after my three things. Whatever they were. That feeling of peace and quiet was long gone. Now I felt fright. Actually it was terror singeing the skin off my bones. Doug was right. I knew something that someone didn’t want me to know. And that person had murdered one person already and shot at another.

  Would these people or that person be trying to get me now? How professional were they? Killing someone with a wasp was pretty creative. And risky. Who exactly was I dealing with? I remembered Cindy slapping my phone out of my hand in case it was tapped so that I wouldn’t be associated with witnessing a crime. Who knew how sophisticated these people were. Was someone watching me right now, through my kitchen window? From my garden?

  Anger rose in my chest. How dare they! I refused to be intimidated. Never again. Trevor had done enough of that for a lifetime. I flung the back door open with bravado. No one was peering over the fence or hiding behind my forsythia bush. I looked for reflections of lenses in the tree branches and little red target dots on my person. Nothing. I called for Lucky thinking it would justify my looking out the back door, just in case someone was watching.

  For a second he didn’t appear and my heart lurched into my mouth. Had someone killed him? As a warning? Isn’t that what pathological serial killers did? Get off on instilling fear in someone before killing them? I’d read about that. Where was that dog? I felt my mouth go dry. And then I heard his tags rattling. Lucky was digging to China in the far corner of the yard. I yelled and he came running towards me, his nose covered with wet clumps of mud. I patted Lucky’s soft head and dragged him inside by the collar. Relief bubbled up inside me and erupted into out-of-control giggles. I tamped them down.

  And honestly, how would I ask Jack about the jacket without him knowing what I was trying to find out? That the jacket was a vehicle. No, a beehicule. Beehicle vehicle. God, I was funny. Laughter erupted again. Again I shoved it down. I had to pull myself together. I had to call Jack. No, not him. He might be involved in all this. No, he wasn’t. But still, I wasn’t taking chances. Creston would want to know about the murder weapon. Besides, Creston could keep me safe. Police protection. But could I use my phone? Shit, now I was as paranoid as Cindy. But better to be safe than sorry. I would call Creston, who could keep me safe, and not Jack, who lied.

  I put Lucky on his leash, grabbed a measuring cup as camouflage for going to my neighbours. I was out of flour, didn’t you know, and my phone, and moseyed next door, all casual. The Blakelys were friendly and I could see their car was still on the street. Someone would be home. They were a young couple who’d bought the house next to mine and were fixing it up. There was a big metal bin in the front now, full of old plaster and dilapidated linoleum. She, Rebecca, was a professor at Ryerson, meaning she could walk to work from Cabbagetown, and he, Brian, was an investment banker and drove downtown. So their car was a clue that someone, at least him, would be home. What a detective I was. I would make a crime reporter yet.

  Brian came to the door, his tie undone and hair gelled but not yet combed. “Hi, Robin. You looking for some sugar?”

  For a second I thought he was being inappropriate, he was young enough to be my son, but then remembered that I was a panther. No, a cougar. No. It was the measuring cup. “I don’t know why I have this in my hand. I left in a hurry.” Well, that sounded like I was crazy. “Do you mind if I borrow your phone?”

  Brian held the door open wide and let me in. “Sure.” He handed me his cell, head slanted to the left a bit. He watched me carefully as I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. “You out of juice?”

  “Juice?” I said stupidly.

  “Low battery?” he clarified.

  “Ah, yes, no juice. Barely enough to check my contacts.”

  He nodded as if he were humouring me. He could smell a rat. But I couldn’t tell him the truth, could I? Cindy was right. She said I would become a liar if was a crime reporter. Well, I was on that trajectory already. But I decided to come clean and tell the truth.

  “Look. I know this looks odd. The measuring cup was a cover for my coming over. I think I’m being watched by a murderer. And I need to borrow your phone because I think mine is tapped.”

  Brian smiled indulgently. “Don’t you lead the exciting life! Is this because of working at the paper?”

  “Yes, so here I am, being coy, trying to get the word out about a wasp.”

  “I see,” said Brian, somewhat doubtfully. “I’m a WASP. Is this about racial profiling?” I stared at him blankly. “Listen, I think I’ll finish getting ready for work. Rebecca’s already gone.” He said this with regret. Rebecca was a psych prof, and he probably thought she’d co
me in handy just about now. “Leave the phone on the counter when you’re done.”

  “Thanks, Brian,” I said to his departing back as I looked up Creston’s number on my phone and then dialed it on Brian’s.

  When he answered I burst into tears.

  23.

  “WHOA, BRIAN, IT’S OKAY. You’re talking to a police officer and I will help you. How did you get this number?”

  Through my tears I was flummoxed. Brian? Who was Brian? Brian was upstairs combing his hair. Oh right, I was using his phone. His name must have come up on caller ID on Creston’s phone. I tried to stifle my sobs.

  “It’s me, Creston. Robin MacFarland,” I sobbed, my heart vibrating.

  “What are you doing using Brian Blakely’s phone? Are you hurt? In trouble? Something happen to your phone? Car accident?” There was genuine concern in Creston’s voice. Panic even. What did that mean?

  A weight pressed down on my chest and I whimpered, “I’m using my neighbour’s because I think mine could be tapped.” I began to sob again. His kindness tipped me into another wave of upset. I choked out, “It’s because of the bee.”

  “What can’t be?”

  I sniffled, “No, the wasp. The murder weapon is a wasp.”

  “Radcliffe was murdered by a WASP? Without any evidence that’s racial profiling and we’ve had pretty good training about that.”

  This was ridiculous. I had to stop crying. I could hear Brian moving around upstairs. What would he think? There was no way I could answer Creston.

  “Listen,” he said, “Why don’t you go home and I’ll come over. I have your address. I have to go down to the waterfront now anyway, I’m at Dundas now, so it’s sort of on my way. I could swing by. Would you like that?”

  I wept, “Yes.”

  I left Brian’s phone on the counter and was soon sitting primly in my living room like a frozen manikin, tears dried, hands clasped in my lap, waiting for Creston. Slowly I began to relax. Help was on its way. While sending a text to Shirley about being a tad late, I heard a car pull up in front of the house. I opened the door and beckoned Creston to come inside quickly. What if someone who shouldn’t know I was talking to the police saw that I was? At least Creston’s car was unmarked. At least he didn’t look like a cop today, in his Sperry topsiders, jeans, and T-shirt. Creston stood in my foyer and I could see that he was looking around without seeming to look around. It was a cop trick. I was trying to see what he saw. The bright colours. The modern art on the walls. Pine wood everywhere. I liked what I liked. No interior designer beiges and blacks for me.