Flush

by Sky Curtis

  “Thanks for coming over,” I said. “I had a bit of a revelation this morning while I was eating my cereal and it scared the pants off me.”

  Creston looked down at my legs, eyebrows raised.

  I smiled at his unspoken joke and moved back from him self-consciously. “Not really, but you know what I mean.”

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Well, I’m allergic to almonds and I have to pick them out of my granola every morning.”

  “Maybe I should come in.”

  I winced. Why had I not invited him in for at least a coffee? “Oh, sorry about that, would you like some coffee? Here, come into the kitchen. I’ll make you a cup.”

  He eased himself into one of my kitchen chairs at my pine harvest table and leaned back, his arms dangling over the back of his chair, which pulled his t-shirt tight across his wonderful chest. He looked good in my kitchen, at home and relaxed, one leg over the other. I tried not to stare at the lean line of muscle on his thigh. I got out the mugs and coffee pot, the coffee, and some sugar. The bustling around was good for me. I felt useful and less frightened.

  “So, you’re allergic to almonds and this frightened you.”

  “Not quite,” I said, my back to him as I was reaching in the fridge for some milk, hoping my muffin top was hidden under my shirt and my bum didn’t look too fat. “I had picked the almonds out of my cereal and while I was eating it I was thinking that I was lucky that I don’t have really serious reactions to them, unlike some people. Some people are very allergic to nuts and wasps and die terrible deaths, feeling like they’re being strangled. Me, my lungs contract and fill up, I mean the allergy is serious, but if I get my inhaler in time, I’m okay.”

  “Yes, I have a niece who is allergic to wasp stings. She carries an EPI pen wherever she goes in the summer.”

  An EPI pen. Why didn’t I think about that? I should have checked his jacket pocket for one.

  The kettle boiled and I poured the hot water through the coffee filter. Soon the smell of freshly brewed dark roast filled the air. I carried the pot to the table and poured the coffee into the two mugs.

  “Right, well, it’s not so bad that I need an EPI pen like she does. Anyway, when I was talking to you about Todd Radcliffe’s profile, I had forgotten that he said he was allergic to wasps. It must have been pretty serious if he felt compelled to mention it in his profile, don’t you think?”

  I put one of the mugs of coffee in front of Creston and sat down. He reached forward for a spoon and the sugar bowl. I inched the milk carton towards him. “Sorry it’s not cream, if that’s what you like.”

  “No, this is all fine, Robin. Thank you very much.” He gave me a dazzling smile and stirred his coffee with enthusiasm, his spoon clinking on the side of the mug. “Let me get this straight. You’re talking about a wasp wasp, not a WASP wasp. Todd’s profile mentioned that he was allergic to wasp stings. And now you think a wasp was the murder weapon.”

  I could tell he thought I was a bit ditzy.

  I spoke clearly. I would be taken seriously, yes, I would. “Yes, I am pretty sure that someone used a wasp to kill him.”

  “Why do you think that? First of all, international thieves don’t use wasps to kill. Too unreliable. Secondly, he could have naturally died from a wasp sting. It happens.” Creston spread his hands out.

  At least he hadn’t completely discounted my theory. I gained confidence. “Not at night. Wasps don’t fly at night. Besides, why would his profile be down after he was dead?”

  Creston looked at me quizzically. The game had changed. “His profile is down?”

  “I know,” I said triumphantly. “The fact that it’s down means something. It came down after he died. I know because I checked it out after I met him in Starbucks and it was still up then. But now it’s down. Someone took it down because there was something in the profile that he didn’t want anyone to see. And whoever took it down would have to know his password. Or guess it. Or would have had to hack into the site.”

  “So you think that someone took down Todd’s profile after he died because it mentioned he was allergic to wasp stings and he or she was trying to hide that fact so Todd’s death would look like an accident or a suicide and not a murder.” He wasn’t exactly scoffing at me, but he was unconvinced.

  Lucky was scratching at the door and I absent-mindedly got up and let him out. “Exactly,” I said prissily, sitting back down.

  Creston ignored my tone. “Are you sure his profile said he was allergic to wasp stings?”

  Did he know how much I had been drinking that night? “One hundred percent positive.”

  “Well, it’s all pretty flimsy, but you never know.”

  “Plus there was no EPI pen in his condo.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I smiled sheepishly. “I looked around.” I remembered how I had rummaged through his bathroom drawers. Had I touched things? Probably. Shit. No, I had put a tissue on my hand. “I didn’t touch anything,” I said defensively.

  Then I remembered the bug on the ceiling. “Wait a sec,” I shouted over my shoulder as I ran into the living room. “I have to get my phone.” It was on the pine table in the living room, right where I’d left it. As I was walking back into the kitchen I searched through the photos. “Here, look at this.” I had found the picture of the insect on the ceiling. When I enlarged it I could see clearly it was a wasp, not a cockroach, not unless cockroaches had wings. “Look, a wasp was on the ceiling of his bathroom. Here’s the proof.”

  Creston looked at the picture with skeptical interest. “Send that to me.”

  Creston took his last slurp of coffee while I sent him the image. “Well, you seem pretty clear about the wasp and there is evidence that at least a wasp was there.” He looked at the picture. “Maybe it was the murder weapon. But it doesn’t seem likely. I’m pretty sure Radcliffe was drugged with a truth serum of some kind so he’d be compelled to tell where the pump was located. Van Horner was then shot so the location wouldn’t be revealed. Nonetheless, I’ll follow up on the wasp and ask Melfours to get that jacket to the lab. Maybe they will find wasp dust or pollen or whatever in the pocket.”

  Creston tapped on his phone and I guessed he was sending the photo and a text to Melfours. “Misener’s at the hospital, waiting for van Horner to come out of surgery. It’s pretty dodgy. He lost a lot of blood and he spiked a fever the night he was shot. So, they had to wait for the antibiotics to kick in before they could operate and remove the bullet. It doesn’t look good, frankly.”

  “No, it sounds pretty grim.” I was putting the mugs in the sink, thinking about his three darling kids.

  “And now we wait for the ballistics report. Misener’s put a rush on it.” Creston pushed himself up from the table and headed for the front door. “I’d better get going.” I admired his broad shoulders under the tight white T-shirt. “Listen,” he said over his shoulder as an afterthought, “I’m going down to the waterfront to check out the boat and crew that helped put the pump into the lake. Did you want to tag along?”

  Did I? Holy shit, of course I did. “Sure,” I said casually, as if I were asked to be part of an investigation every day. “You going to check out their homes first?”

  He turned and looked at me vacantly. “Their homes?”

  “Yeah, sort of on the way as well. They all live around College and Bathurst.”

  Creston narrowed his eyes at me. “How do you know that?”

  “Great researcher at the paper.” I was wiping off the table and putting my uneaten granola in the sink. I’d get to the dishes later.

  “So, you’ll share the addresses with the cops?” He seemed incredulous. Had I made a faux pas? But tit for tat seemed like a good idea. I opened up my briefcase and pulled out the piece of paper with the names and addresses of the captain and crew. I handed it to Creston with a small bow. “
Sure, I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.” Then I looked at him straight in the eye. “Who do you really think is planning to steal the water from the lake?”

  Creston took the sheet and nodded his head towards the door. “Let’s hit the road. Lots to do today.”

  So, no answer. I locked the back door and sashayed out of the kitchen into the hallway, maneuvering around him in the tight space. I could feel his body heat as I sidled past.

  He didn’t press the point or me either as he followed me to the front door. I could feel his eyes on my bum. I wondered if it looked like a saggy satchel ass and hoped not. I stuffed my phone into my bag as I opened the front door. Suddenly I remembered Lucky was outside. What if they killed my dog as a warning to me? As I went back into the kitchen Creston called from the porch, “Are you going to get Lucky?”

  I wished.

  “Yup.”

  I let Lucky in, locked the back door and caught up with Creston. “Do you think they’ll try to kill Lucky?”

  “You worried about him?”

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  “Keep him inside. I’ll have a cruiser go by your house every half hour. We’ll watch your house.”

  “Thanks, Creston.”

  “Call me Ralph.”

  Ralph, huh? Now that was progress. We were both quiet as he pulled out of the parking spot. He cranked the air conditioner up high but the car was still as hot as an oven. He chauffeured me along Carlton for a few blocks in silence. Suddenly he said, “I don’t really know.”

  “Know what?” I asked.

  “Know who’s trying to steal the water out of the lake. And maybe nobody is. One would think the Americans were doing it, they need water so badly, but we have no evidence that it’s the Americans at all. Nothing.” He looked at me as if to emphasize the point.

  “It could easily be someone else. There are lots of really hot countries all over the world who don’t have enough drinking water; Africa, Egypt, the whole Middle East.”

  Creston stated, “None of them seem to be trying to steal the water. Not one. We searched every database last night for a motive for Radcliffe’s murder and van Horner’s attack and have come up with zilch. Not a single shred of a clue.” He clenched his jaw with frustration. I liked a man who didn’t pound the steering wheel. I’d had enough of displays of rage from men. Trevor would throw things. Books. Pens. Boxes of cereal.

  “Well, maybe if we could find out how the water was going to be stolen, then maybe we would know why.” Since when did I use the royal “we?” Creston, no Ralph, didn’t seem to notice.

  “Which is why we are going to talk to the crew.”

  “Well, thanks for your honesty.”

  “Thanks for letting me know where the crew lives, saves time.”

  So, tit for tat did have benefits. Maybe if I enjoyed his tat he would like my tit. Geezus, Robin. I really had to control myself better. You’d think I was a nympho or something. We drove along in companionable silence for a few more blocks along Carlton.

  “You ever been there?” I asked, looking out the window.

  Creston glanced at me, his grey eyes soft and enquiring. “Where?”

  “Allan Gardens.” We’d just driven by the beautiful park. “It’s so lovely in the greenhouses, a tropical world of thriving plants. I go there in the winter, when everything is white and grey outside. It lifts my spirits to be around all the coloured blooms on the flowers and the lush shades of green.” I wondered if I’d exposed too much of myself. Ralph said nothing and we drove along in silence.

  Abruptly he said, “You like gardening?’

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Creston smiled. “Me, too.”

  The relationship was moving along like a house on fire.

  But then, suddenly Ralph was all business. “If Radcliffe was murdered by a wasp, how do you think the killer arranged that? It would be almost impossible to guarantee an outcome.”

  So, he wanted to bash around my theory. “I’ve been thinking about that. One would want to be certain that the wasp would sting the victim. He probably planted the wasp in his jacket, maybe in a lining or a pocket, but probably the pocket. When Radcliff put the jacket on, the wasp stung him.”

  “Pretty risky, and not guaranteed.”

  “Less risky than putting the wasp on the bed. And not risky if you knew Radcliffe’s habits. He put his hands in his pockets all the time. Gum.”

  “Gum?”

  “He was trying to quit smoking and chewed gum constantly. He kept it in his pocket.”

  “Well, that would be someone who knew him well.”

  Creston turned and looked at me expectantly as he waited for a traffic jam to open up east of Yonge and College.

  “What? Me? C’mon. We only had coffee, a datelet. Plus, there’s zippo evidence of my knowing Radcliffe before then. No fingerprints, no items of clothing in his condo, nothing.” I hoped. He had to check out everyone, I guess. “Anyway, to continue with my theory, I reckon he probably put the jacket on when he left the streetcar and was walking to his condo building.”

  “Why would you guess that? Why not earlier in the evening?”

  “First of all, the guy wasn’t wearing socks.”

  Ralph looked at me, with a mixture of bewilderment and mockery on his face.

  I rose to the bait. “A guy who doesn’t wear socks probably puts a jacket on as a last resort. It got pretty chilly after the sun went down that night, probably down to about fifteen by nine o’clock. He wasn’t wearing it when he left me, but then, he was going down into the subway and then onto a streetcar, so he probably didn’t wear it then. But by the time he stepped out of the streetcar, it would have been quite cold, so I’m guessing he put it on then. Makes sense. Secondly, it only takes a few minutes for a person who is dangerously allergic to wasps to actually die. He made it inside the door of his condo, he even hung his coat up. So, he had just been stung.”

  Creston nodded, “Okay, well, I’ve already got Melfours on the jacket, just in case you’re right. We’ll take a look.” Then he looked at me appraisingly. “You’re pretty smart, for a chickie whose experience is writing about flowers and carpet.”

  I bristled, “Probably best not to call me chickie.”

  His eyes danced, “Hmmm, the chicklet has spunk too.”

  I punched him on the arm. I didn’t care if he was trying to be funny. My fist connected with what felt like steel.

  He laughed right out loud and then said in a falsetto voice, “Ouch, that hurts. You’re assaulting a police officer. Maybe I should handcuff you.”

  I wasn’t going to dance this dance. “We can confirm the time of the sting with Jack England.”

  “Oh, him,” Creston said derisively.

  I felt I had to stand up for him. He was one of us. “He was following Radcliffe that night.”

  “He was? Now that is very interesting.”

  What did that mean? “He would know when Radcliffe put the jacket on.”

  “Yes, or he might lie about it. That’s what I like about you, Robin. You don’t lie.”

  “Not much, anyway.”

  Creston turned right on Bathurst and then did a quick left. “It seems we’re here, at…” he glanced at his notes, “Santiago Martinez’s place of residence.”

  “Nice place,” I nodded my head with exaggerated appreciation. We were looking at a tall Victorian house with a peeling coat of red paint on the bricks and about twenty bicycles chained to the tilted porch railing. It looked like some had been there for years. Weeds poked through cracks in the poured cement pathway. The sooty windows were covered with tacked up sheets. Obviously a student rooming house.

  “Thanks for the address, chickie.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I thought for a second. Yeah, fuck him. Now that would be fun.

  24. />
  RALPH AND I CLIMBED THE CREAKY wooden steps, bleached grey by too many summer suns, and approached the ancient and carved front door. Yellowed varnish was hanging in long strips from the old oak and the leaded door window was covered in years of city grime. The tarnished unicorn door knocker had seen better days, about a hundred years ago. As I got closer, I looked at it in amazement. How had it lasted so long, through so many owners? It was beautiful.

  Creston saw me admiring it and said, “You certainly do notice details about houses, don’t you?”

  “Years of on-the-job training,” I laughed as I lifted the heavy brass knocker up and let it clunk down. I could hear it echo in what must have been a meagerly furnished house.

  A sparsely bearded young man of about twenty or so answered the door wearing a grey University of Toronto hooded sweatshirt over red plaid flannel pajama bottoms. He had a biology text in his left hand and ear bud wires dangling below his chin. “Hi,” he smiled engagingly. “What can I do you for?”

  Creston stepped forward and drew himself up to his full height while holding out some official ID. He spoke in his cop voice. “The police are looking for Santiago Martinez. He home?”

  The boy’s eyes widened. “Santi? What did he do?”

  “Nothing, as far as we know. He’s a person of interest in a case we’re working on.”

  “Oh phew. Wait here, I’ll go get his schedule. It’s on the fridge.” He turned to leave.