Now this is the weird thing. Up until then, I hadn’t. It had just been a body. A horror-filmy, yucky, dead human body, and that was all my outraged mind would accept, but when Becker asked me that question, I did recognize him. I knew who it was.
“John Travers,” I said.
George gasped.“Really?” he said and went back to take another look over the edge.
“Travers. Local?”
“He’s—was—an auto mechanic living about two kilometres down the dump road. He has a wife and baby daughter—Oh, God, Francy!”
“Francy. His wife?”
“Somebody’s got to let her know,” I said.
“We’ll do that, Ms. Deacon.”
“How? Knock on her door stone-faced, hat in hand? There’s no telling how she’ll react. She’ll probably flip out all over you. You don’t know Francy.”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. She’s a friend.”
“Perhaps you’d be willing to come with us then, to talk to her, when we get through here. She’ll likely be needing someone she knows to be with her for support.”
“Not likely,” George muttered. I tried to elbow him to shut up, but it was too late. Becker turned quickly to look at him.
“What does that mean?” he said, sharply.
George had the grace to look sheepish, or goatish, which he does from time to time. His ears elongate, somehow, and his neck gets brownish-red when he says something tactless.
“Well. John Travers was a bit of a… not a good husband to Francine.”
Becker looked at me. I hated to say it. Francy had just lost her husband, though she didn’t know it yet, and even if he was a no-good son of a bitch who got drunk and hit her, she had told me that she loved him, most of the time.
“He was violent,” I said. “Look him up, Detective Becker. There’s probably some record of—what do you call ’em—domestics? John was a shit.”
Becker’s nice crinkly eyes narrowed and I swear his ears moved. “So, she might have some motive for shooting him?”
“Motive she may have had,” I said, “but Francy wouldn’t shoot anybody. She hated guns. Anyway, she just had a baby. Kind of hard to lug a body to the dump without bursting your C-section stitches and spewing your intestines.” It was graphic, I know, and both George and Becker winced. What is it with men, that they can eat pepperoni pizza while watching a slice-and-dice Rambo film, but the merest mention of menstruation or childbirth and they go a sickly green colour?
The ambulance had pulled away from the dump hut, presumably with Spit Morton safely tucked away inside. I hoped he was okay. The fat cop drove back to the pit, pulling up just inches from Becker’s left thigh. Becker jumped out of the way and swore, and the fat guy laughed.
A second vehicle arrived, painted a dark colour, very discreet. It had more class than Spit’s hearse could ever hope for, and I knew that it was the dead-mobile. Suddenly, I really wanted to go home.
“Are we done?” I said.
“What? The little lady doesn’t want to help us drag up the nice, juicy body she found?” the fat guy said, poking his head out of the cruiser window, a greasy smile on his face.
“The little lady,” I said, “is in shock.” And I was, because suddenly everything went black.
Three
She’s got her good dress on
and she’s waiting like a bracelet
for his arm.
—Shepherd’s Pie
George drove me home after I woke up. I had never fainted before and I was mortified.
“Must have been because I didn’t have any breakfast,” I said, more to myself than to George, as the old truck bounced along the Dunbar sideroad. He was driving more slowly than usual, which I appreciated, but it didn’t make much difference. The Dunbar road hasn’t seen a municipal grader since the Great Depression.
“It is a good thing you didn’t eat, actually,” George said. “Bodies are best discovered on an empty stomach, I think.”
“You have a point. Oh, shit.”
George stepped on the brakes. “Are you going to throw up?”
“No, no. I just remembered that I was supposed to go with Becker to tell Francy about John. I don’t want her to be alone when they tell her.”
“The policeman Becker already thought of that. He said you should take it easy. He’ll finish up at the dump and then come to pick you up. You should have seen him when you fainted. He caught you before you hit the ground, like one of those figure-skater fellows. I thought he would twirl you around a couple of times before he put you down.”
“I really don’t know why I chose that moment to black out,” I said, disturbed by the thought of Becker’s arms around me. Wish I’d been awake.
“It was good timing,” George said. “It got us away from there. No more questions.”
“True. Actually, I did it on purpose.”
“Of course you did. What talent!”
“I feel like shit, George.”
“Then I will make you some of that blood-cleansing tea you have been trying to make me drink. Set you right in no time. The policeman said he would call from the dump hut before coming out here.”
George Hoito had lived alone in his old brick farmhouse for more than twenty years. He had emigrated to Thunder Bay in his thirties and found a safe home in the Finnish community up there. He’d married a Finnish woman, and stayed immersed in a culture that never changed. Then, when his wife died, he’d moved south. South, that is, as far as Kuskawa.
He had two cats and a tame raven called Poe, who strutted around belligerently on leathery black legs, just daring the cats to come within reach of his wicked beak. They very sensibly left him alone.
Poe’s wingspan was too wide for indoors. He preferred a kind of flapping hop to raise himself up to his favourite perch—a bookshelf near George’s woodstove. He was enormous and took some getting used to. I suppose it’s instinct that makes a bird so watchful, so oppressively aware of everything. Aunt Susan had a budgerigar called Snubby which always stared at strangers, but being stared at by a budgie was not as off-putting as being watched by Poe. If a dog or cat looks at you, you can usually figure out what they’re thinking. Fuzzy animals use body language and wear facial expressions. Birds just look judgmental, and Poe made me feel like carrion. He perched on George’s shoulder sometimes, but he had never perched on mine.
Perhaps Poe resented the attention I paid the cats, whom George ignored completely, considering them working animals only, hired to keep the mice in line.
When I was comfortably settled in the guest chair at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of alfalfa tea before me, George’s cats appeared out of nowhere like smoke and wrapped themselves around my legs, purring loudly. I lifted them both into my lap where they made a nice, comforting pillow of fur, and Poe, watching as always from his bookshelf, made a rude croaking sound and shook his feathers at me.
“Feeling better?” George asked. He had not made any tea for himself and was preparing to drive the truck out to the back field, where he would dig a deep hole for Dweezil.
“Much better, thanks. But I’m worried. Somebody shot John Travers in the chest and conked Spit Morton over the head. Why?”
“It was probably one of Travers’s gambling friends,” George said. “He was always getting into fights, you know that. Perhaps he refused to honour a debt. Or perhaps it was a husband. I have heard stories about John Travers and the ladies.”
“Yes, but to leave his body at the dump? It’s so ugly. So mob-like.”
“Maybe it was Rico Amato. I always thought he had mob connections.”
“Rico? Hardly.” Rico ran a small antique store near the highway. He was a fastidious man, exceedingly well groomed and a well known supporter of local arts organizations. He played the violin, not very well, and gave fabulous parties.
“I don’t think Rico has ever been to the dump in his life, George. And I don’t think he’s ever met John Travers. They don’t travel i
n the same circles.”
George looked at me oddly. “I was joking, child. Leave it to the police. They probably already know who did it, or Francy will be able to tell them. This is Cedar Falls, remember, not Toronto. We do not get mysterious killers hereabouts.”
“But we did just find a body at the dump, George.”
“And I guarantee that the police will arrest somebody by tomorrow morning. Now drink your tea. I’ll be back soon.” He headed for the door.
“I’ll be gone before you get back,” I said. “Becker, remember? He’s coming to take me away in his cruiser. Maybe they’ll arrest me, just to get the thing cleared up fast.”
George smiled. “If they do, don’t expect me to bail you out. I am just a poor old man.”
“Poor, maybe. Old, never. Happy digging.”
He left. At the last moment, just before the door closed, Poe swooped down from his shelf and settled on George’s shoulder, going along for the ride. I imagined the tall, shaggyhaired figure seen from a distance, digging a hole, a raven perched on his shoulder and the lumpy sack containing Dweezil propped nearby. Gothic, very. I hoped nobody would be watching. That’s how rumours get started.
It wasn’t Becker who telephoned an hour later, it was the big guy. He identified himself as Constable Morrison and I recognized his voice—sort of greasy and self-satisfied. The last time I had heard him speak he had called me “little lady” and I had fainted, plop, right into Detective Becker’s arms. Maybe Morrison thought I had fainted with shock at his tone, because he was much more polite this time.
“Ms. Deacon?”
“That’s me.”
“Detective Becker is just finishing up here at the scene, and he asked me to call to inform you that we would be there shortly. It’s the only house on the Dunbar sideroad, is that right?”
“Yes. Watch out for the potholes, Detective.” I could imagine the frame of the police car groaning as Morrison’s bulk jounced around inside. I caught myself hoping that he had eaten a huge breakfast (which was likely) and would find the trip as uncomfortable as possible.
After I hung up the phone, I felt a trifle disappointed. I had been looking forward to seeing Becker again, but I hadn’t bargained on Morrison. I guess you can’t expect Laurel without Hardy.
I ran my fingers through my hair and made myself sit calmly at the kitchen table, like a debutante waiting for her prom date. I was wearing chore clothes and I hadn’t taken a bath recently. I probably looked like hell and anyway, developing a crush on a cop was really, really stupid. I counted the reasons.
One: Becker thought I was George’s girlfriend, and the concept had obviously put him off—I saw the sneer. So he wouldn’t be interested. More likely, revolted. Some people are like that about age disparity. Not me. Aunt Susan had a twenty-one year old boyfriend once and I thought it was incredibly hip.
Two: He was a police officer, which would mean that if we were to get involved, I would have to quit smoking dope. Some people drink cognac, I smoke dope. No big deal, but I imagine it would be to him.
Three: I had not had a romantic relationship since Drew, the actor, had stormed out of my apartment after throwing a three-hundred dollar Audrey puppet against the wall. (The puppet bounced back. I didn’t, and swore off men for life. I thought.)
Three strikes, you’re out, I said to myself, as the cruiser pulled up outside.
There was no sign of George, but way off in the distance I saw a black bird, wheeling. Poe, doing the funereal raven bit.
Becker got out of the car to meet me on the steps. I glanced at the third finger of his left hand (oh, you idiot) and there was no ring. Great.
“You okay?” he said.
“I’m fine. Sorry about fainting all over you. I’m not usually so girly.” I was babbling already. “You call Francy yet?”
“No, ma’am. There are some things you can’t do over the phone.”
“You sure this is okay? Me coming with you?”
“It’s better this way,” he said. “Informing families of a death is never easy, and I usually take a woman police officer with me if I’ve got to tell a wife about a husband, or a woman about a child. But there aren’t any women available right now, so I’d appreciate you being there.”
“As a woman-substitute?” Defensive. Real smooth, Polly.
He raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean,” he said. “No offense intended.”
What was I trying to do? Get him to say “Oh no, ma’am, you’re all woman. No question.”
“I was joking,” I said.
“Oh. Hard to tell these days, ma’am. Political correctness seems to have killed humour dead.” We both let the word “dead” just hang there.
“Anyway,” he said, after a moment, “you’ll be better in this situation than my partner. He doesn’t do sensitive.”
“So I noticed.” We had reached the cruiser, where Morrison waited in the driver’s seat, looking a little green. Good. The road had done its worst.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go in the back,” Becker said. He opened the door for me, and I half expected him to put his hand on my head as I climbed in, like they do in the movies to protect the prisoner from getting bumped. It was not a pleasant feeling back there. There were no handles on the inside of the doors.
Morrison grinned at me in the rear-view. “You want to cuff her too, Becker?” he said.
Becker was no more amused than I was. He turned around in his seat to talk to me, his face distorted by the mesh separating us. I leaned forward to remove myself from Morrison’s view. Our faces were very close.
“Tell me about Francy and John Travers,” he said.
Four
The foam-choked howls of starving wolves
are background music—nothing more
when weighed against that drunken man
who staggers past my flimsy door.
—Shepherd’s Pie
“I met Francy and John two years ago at the Shepherd’s Pie barn dance in the village,” I said. I didn’t have to explain about the dance. It was an annual event, a local tradition. The Laingford cop shop always sent a couple of guys out our way on account of it, just to keep an eye on things. Becker had most likely been there himself at some point. Everybody went.
Ruth Glass and Rose Shelley are the lead musicians for Shepherd’s Pie, the folk band that’s been getting so much press lately. I’ve known Ruth since public school, when we were both considered a little strange. I wrote a lot of poetry back then, and Ruth started setting my stuff to music. When it began to pay off, Ruth hired me as her lyricist. I don’t write as many songs for her as I used to, but I like to keep my hand in, because the money’s good and it gives me a kind of secondhand glamour.
The band spends a fair amount of time on the road, touring, but every year around harvest time, Ruth and Rose throw a big party, opening up their barn and roasting a side of beef. They always bring in a couple of kegs of ale from the Sikwan Brewery and lots of people bring their own mickey of sipping whiskey. It gets pretty rowdy, sometimes, but it’s Ruth and Rose’s way of keeping in touch with the community and avoiding what they call the “uppity star syndrome”. It works.
“I had only been there for half an hour or so,” I said to Becker. “It was around eleven o’clock and the party was only just starting to cook. Shepherd’s Pie usually plays a set after midnight, but before that all the local musicians take turns getting up on the platform to jam. Rico Amato was up there playing old fiddle music and there was a crazy square-dance happening, except that nobody around here knows how to do it and nobody was calling it so there was a lot of milling around. It should have been really good energy, but something was wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Becker said.
“Well, you know how a crowd can turn ugly in a second? Like one moment everyone’s best friends and the next moment there’s a fight?”
“Been there. Done that,” Becker said.
“Well, it was like I was watching
it change in slow motion. I got there right at the crucial moment when things were okay, then a tension rose in the air, like a smell, near the back door. So I went over to see what was going on.”
“Everybody loves a fight,” Morrison said.
“It wasn’t that,” I snapped, although it had been, a bit. We’ve all got that morbid curiosity gene that makes us slow down when we drive past a road accident, even if we hate ourselves for doing it. Some people keep it in check, but most don’t, including me. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Morrison.
“I went to see if there was anything I could do.”
“Like you’ve got a black belt, maybe?” Morrison said.
“Let her tell the story, Morrison,” Becker said.
“We’ll be here all day,” Morrison said. Becker ignored him and so did I, although I took the hint and got to the point, describing the scene as best I could.
John Travers had been drunk. Really drunk, the blind, dangerous kind that makes some men seem twice as big as they really are. He was staggering around bumping into people, and some guy he’d bumped into had pushed him back. They were getting loud and people were starting to edge away, looking nervous.
I had seen John around—in the hardware store and the A&P, but I’d never spoken to him. He was very good-looking, sort of sulky and sexy at the same time, with a crazy, doanything glint in his eye. I didn’t know Francy then, but I’d heard of her. She was hovering in the background like a palefaced angel, telling him to calm down, to get normal.
She was one of those women you can’t help noticing. She had long, frizzy, white-blonde hair which bushed out from the top of a tiny, fine-boned body, and her skin was perfectly white, like wax. She wore a small diamond stud in her nose. But once you took a look at her, you sort of looked away and then looked back, because the whole left side of her face was a mass of burn scars. Once you see that, it’s hard not to stare.
Everybody knew that something was about to happen.
“Stay back,” some guy said to the people near me. “John’s gonna snap.”
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 2