“Hi, I’m looking for a patient, Sp—Gerald Morton,” I said.
The woman nodded and tickered away at her computer keyboard, stared at the screen for a moment and then looked up, checking me out. I was dressed in farm gear—overalls and my very cool, Michael Jordan rubber boots—not perhaps the most appropriate hospital visiting attire.
“You’ll be a relative,” the woman said. Would I? Okay. I guess I was.
“We’re cousins,” I lied, blushing.
“Right,” the raspberry receptionist said, squinting at the screen. “Polly Deacon?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Good,” the woman said, satisfied that she had pegged me as one of the Morton clan. Theresa must have “fixed it”, as promised.
“You can go up in a few minutes, Polly. Take a seat. I’ll call you.”
I sat down in the polyweave loveseat next to the reception desk and picked up a Cosmopolitan. The cover-girl was partially clad in a scrap of gold vinyl, her breasts rising out of the garment like warm bread-dough.
“DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO KEEP HIM HOT?” the cover shouted.
Probably not, I thought, looking glumly at my black rubber boots. Magazines like that depress me. Not because I waste my time trying to make myself look like an anorexic whore, but because there are advertising executives out there who think that I might want to.
I tossed the Cosmo back and picked up a National Geographic instead, entertaining myself with pictures of decimated tropical rainforests and endangered species.
A voice came over the loudspeaker above the sofa: “Ms. Deacon to reception.” I looked up and saw the receptionist beckoning to me. She was within spitting distance and could have just rapped on the glass and I would have heard her, but I guess it was a new policy to go with the new intercom system.
I went over and peered through at her. “You can go up now,” she said. “Your cousin’s in room 402. The elevator’s on the right, there.” I could see where the elevator was. The sign was about ten feet high. I suppose they have to say that, but it struck me as awfully silly. I thanked her and walked to it, ten steps or so, straight ahead.
Spit was out of intensive care and in a semi-private room. He was hooked up to an IV drip, and his head was bandaged. Someone had given him a shave, and he looked pale and vulnerable lying there. The curtains were drawn around his room-mate’s bed, but his were open. When he saw me he smiled broadly in recognition.
“Well, if it ain’t the goat-girl,” he said, wheezing. “C'mon in. Have a drink.” He gestured to a pitcher of water next to his bed and winked. I had shared a slug or two with him one rainy Friday when I was feeling devilish. Spit drinks Rico Amato’s homemade rotgut, so it was a bonding ritual only.
He got a kick out of calling me “goat-girl”, and, seeing as I called him “Spit”, it seemed like a fair exchange.
“How are you feeling, Spit?” I said, pulling up a chair.
“Big headache, girl. Big headache. But I’m alive, which is good. Gotta get out of here, though.”
“How come?”
“Too many ghosts. Guy over there just died, eh? Heart case. He was talking to me plain as anything last night and when I wake up this morning, ain’t no beep coming from behind his curtain.”
“There’s a body in there?” One dead body a week was about all I could take. Spit started laughing, then stopped with an inward gasp of pain and put his hand to his head.
“No, no. They took him away. But his ghost is flipping around the room like a trout, and I can’t get any sleep.”
“You see ghosts, do you?”
Spit’s eyes narrowed and he studied me carefully to see if I was kidding him. I wasn’t.
“Yup,” he said. “Sometimes. Cops probably won’t believe me either, when I tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
“About Sunday night. They’re on their way over here. To interview me, doctor says.”
“The cops haven’t talked to you yet?”
“Nope. Ain’t talked to nobody but my roomie. And he’s dead.”
“When did you regain consciousness, Spit?”
“Last night, I guess. And they took away my damned tobacco.”
I reached into my pocket, where I’d slipped the tin of Red Man I’d picked up on the way over. There was an honourable tradition to be upheld: Always bring tobacco when you visit an elder.
His eyes brightened.
“You’re a good girl,” he said, prising the lid off and stuffing some under his lip. “Now I got a use for that bedpan they keep shoving at me.”
“So what about Sunday night?” I said.
“How’d you get in here, anyway? You a deputy cop or something?”
I grinned. “I’m your second cousin, twice removed. Theresa sent me to make sure you were okay.”
He grinned back, his face distended by the wad of tobacco. “Little Terry,” he said. “She’s a good girl, too. Tell her I’m fine.”
“Do you remember what happened Sunday night?”
“Sure do. But I’m not sure I should tell you before I tell the cops.”
“I won’t blab, I promise. It’s important.”
“Why? You and Freddy planning to get married or something?”
“What? Freddy?”
“I’m charging him with assault, eh? You shouldn’t be pairing up with him, girl. He’s not your type.”
“Freddy was the one who hit you on the head?”
“Well, it wasn’t the tooth fairy.”
“But why? When?”
“We got into an argument about the dresser I gave to Amato last week. Freddy wanted to sell it for cash, eh? Like always.”
“When? When did he hit you?”
“Why is that so important? What counts is that he did it.” I realized that Spit probably didn’t know about John Travers’s body, or if he did, he was playing innocent.
“So why are the cops coming to interview you?” I said.
“Don’t be foolish, girl. You know as well as I do that Travers’s dead body was in the wood hole. That’s why you’re asking me all these questions.”
“Yeah, Spit. I know because I found him. But how do you know? You were out cold, and you said you only came to last night.”
Spit spat. The glob hit the bedpan, four feet away and made a satisfying little “ping” when it landed.
“Small town hospital,” Spit said. “Everybody knows. Got it from Pat, the nurse, who got it from Mack, the ambulance attendant.”
“Oh. So you think Freddy did it? Killed John Travers?”
“Don’t know about that. I was drinking with him in his hut from seven until nigh on midnight—the quart I got from Amato for the dresser. Freddy’s usually a good drinking buddy, but Sunday night he was acting funny, and the wine made him crazy.”
“So he hit you? Were you fighting, like, duking it out?”
“Nope. I turned my back on him after he called me a sneaking weasel and next thing I know, I’m here.”
“But you were found in your hearse, Spit.”
“I know that,” he said. “He must have dragged me there after he done it.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Probably thought he’d killed me. Put me there so he wouldn’t be blamed, then took off. But after I tell the cops, he’ll be blamed, all right.”
“You said something about ghosts, Spit. On Sunday night. Before Freddy hit you?”
“That’s the part the cops won’t believe. They’ll say it was DTs, like they always do.”
“What part won’t they believe?”
A flicker of fear passed across Spit’s face, and he shut his eyes for a moment. “Could have been DTs, I guess,” he said. “Could have been a dream. But I know a ghost when I see one.”
“Where? When?”
“Sometime, girl. Somewhere. I was in that other place you go when you’ve been hit on the head after a jar of Amato’s Triple X. One second I’m floating there with my head in a l
eghold trap and the next second I’m awake in my car and Travers is sitting next to me, real as you are.”
“Alive?”
Spit shuddered. “Nope. He was covered in blood, his chest wide open like a butchered pig.” I fought down nausea as the image of Travers’s fly-covered body—the thing I had seen yesterday—came swimming back to me.
“But he was talking to me, see?” Spit said. “He was saying ’baby, baby, baby’ over and over, looking straight at me. Then I blacked out again.”
The hairs on my arms stood straight up on end.
“Geez, Spit. That’s awful.”
“You’re telling me.”
“You think the ghost was trying to tell you something?”
“Maybe. Don’t know what, though. Could have been the words to a rock-and-roll song. Ghosts don’t always talk sense.”
“You’re the expert.”
“Wish I wasn’t. Anyway, the cops won’t take any notice of an old drunk like me. I may not even bother telling them. But I am gonna charge Freddy. Maybe the District will give me his weekend shift while he’s in jail, eh?”
“Maybe. So he just whacked you over the head, then panicked and left, you figure?”
“I figure. Bastard.”
“And he whacked you sometime after midnight.”
“That’s right.”
I had to find out when John was shot, that was for certain. If he was killed after midnight, that made Freddy a prime suspect. I would have to talk to Freddy, too.
Just then, the door to Spit’s room opened and Becker and Morrison walked in. They were not overjoyed to see me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Becker said, striding towards me.
“There’s no need to say that every time we meet, Detective,” I said. “I’m visiting a sick friend. What does it look like?”
“It looks like interfering in police business,” Becker said.
Morrison moved in, too. “I thought I told you not to get involved,” the big cop said.
“I’m not…” I began, but Becker had grabbed my upper arm and was ushering me out of the room. When we got into the hallway, I shook him off.
“There’s no need for that, Detective,” I said. “I’ll come quietly.”
Now, I will admit this to you in private. When Becker took my arm, all sorts of lewd fantasy thoughts flashed across my mental movie screen. These thoughts had to do with handcuffs, uniforms and mildly kinky role-playing games. I don’t know where they came from and I was so shocked by my unconscious mind that I lost control for a second. When I said “I’ll come quietly,” I immediately recognized the double-entendre, and the Aunt Susan eyebrow came up, I swear, of its own accord.
That would have been okay, I could have handled that and talked myself through it later over a joint at the cabin. The problem was that Becker’s eyebrow went up as well, and a tiny, red-hot jolt passed between us that was pure, unadulterated sex. If I had been a Victorian maiden, I would have swooned.
“Quietly? I doubt it,” Becker said. Lord help us. “What were you talking to Morton about?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s all of my business. Look, I know you want to clear your friend, who, incidentally, we have not been able to track down yet, but we will. I know you have an interest in this case, but you’re getting in the way.”
“How so?”
He sighed. “You know damn well. Interrogating witnesses before we get a chance to see them. You did it with Francy Travers, now with Morton. It’s got to stop. For one thing, it’s dangerous. Someone has been killed, unless you’ve forgotten, and if you happen to figure this mess out before we do, you could end up in the dump yourself. You ever think of that?”
“Which would leave you with another juicy murder to solve. Give you a chance to get promoted,” I said.
“That isn’t even slightly funny. You’re playing in a game you don’t know anything about, Polly. I don’t want to find you dead somewhere. I really don’t.”
“Me neither.”
“Well then, stop this. It’s making life difficult for me, and you’re putting yourself in danger, butting in.”
“If I don’t butt in, Mark, I’m afraid a mistake will be made, that’s all.”
“We’re professionals. You’re not.”
“Yeah, and as a citizen, I should have faith in the justice system, right?”
“Right.”
“What about Guy Paul Morin? Steven Truscott? Donald Marshall?”
“Those were…”
“Isolated cases? I don’t think so. Listen. It’s not that I don’t have faith in you, but I know what kind of pressure you guys are under when somebody’s been killed. I just want to make sure that Francy has the best chance, okay?”
“If Francy Travers didn’t kill her husband, we’ll find that out and find the person who did,” he said, smiling with an assurance I just could not accept.
“I’m not so sure,” I said.
Becker’s smile vanished. His eyes (green with little gold flecks in them) got darker.
“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” he said. “I’m glad you have so much confidence in me and in the system. You’d better just hope, in that case, that you never find yourself in court. You might, you know.”
“That sounds like another threat, Becker,” I said. “I just love your tactics. No wonder you guys get the wrong man so often. I can just see people falling over themselves in their eagerness to give you information.” I backed away from him and poked my head around the door of room 402.
“See you later, Spit,” I said. “I’m going to go save a dog, then talk to my fiancé. Mind you aim for the bedpan.” With that I headed off down the hall, pausing for a moment to glare at Becker. He was white-faced, and I figured that he’d never want to speak to me again. A pity, really, but then he was a cop.
Fourteen
I drove that ramshackle rattletrap
hellbent for elsewhere
leaving you sleeping.
—Shepherd’s Pie
When I let Lug-nut off his chain, he looked at me like I was crazy. As usual, he had barked his head off when I pulled up in the truck, and he kept on barking until he recognized me, which was when I was roughly three feet away. I wondered if he might be slightly myopic, which would account for some of his aggression.
I had been trying to decide, on my way over to the Travers’ place, whether or not it would be a smart idea to take the dog over to the cabin. After all, he was used to his own territory, and I had no stomach for keeping an animal tied up. There was no guarantee that he would be interested in sticking around my place, except perhaps for the fact that I would be feeding him.
When I pulled into the driveway, I knew immediately that I would be taking him home, no matter what. He looked impossibly lonely. The house was cold and abandoned, just like Lug-nut, and there was a yellow band of POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape over the front door. Any territory would be better than this.
I spoke to him softly, rubbed his tummy for a while and then unclipped his chain. That was when he gave me the “you must be crazy” look. The unexpected freedom confused the hell out of him. He made a sort of “chase me” dash for about a metre, then stopped, whirled around and cringed. I didn’t say anything, just watched him. Then he came back to his feed bowl and sniffed at it in a hopeful way.
“Soon, soon,” I said. I picked up the water bowl and filled it at the outside tap. Lug-nut inhaled it, and I had to refill it twice before he had enough. I had planned to feed him from the food bag under Francy’s kitchen sink, but I didn’t relish the thought of sneaking past the police tape. There might be a hidden camera in there or something, and they might decide I was returning to the scene of the crime. On the other hand, I didn’t have much extra cash, and dog food is expensive.
“What do you think, dog?” I said. “Should we do a spot of B&E?” He wagged his tail, which I took to be permission from the only available resident. He followed me up to the doo
r, which the police had very kindly left unlocked. I ducked under the tape, but Lug-nut refused to come in, although I assured him it was okay. He just sat there on the doorstep, whining and shivering. Maybe he had some sixth sense about what had happened there, or maybe he could smell the blood, I don’t know.
“Hey, it’s okay, Luggy,” I said, patting his ugly head. “You don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. Just don’t go anywhere, okay? Stay!” The word was obviously a recognizable command. He lay down immediately, his head between his paws, looking up at me. “Good dog!” I said. Great White Dog Wrangler. That’s me. I went inside.
The kitchen was just as I had last seen it. The police hadn’t done any friendly housecleaning, and the bloodstains on the floor had darkened to a rust-colour, which was much easier to cope with than the fresh puddles I had slipped in the day before.
There was a stomach-churning, coppery smell in the air, though, and I breathed through my mouth.
The beer bottles were still on the table, although there seemed to be fewer than there were before. Becker and Morrison must have taken some of them away as evidence. I knew that at least a few of the bottles would have Francy’s prints on them, and I felt very afraid for her. The remaining few showed traces of a grey-ish powder, which I assumed was fingerprinting dust, just like in the movies. The whole scene was like a movie set, actually, as if the crew had just stepped away to go on a lunch break. It was spooky.
I glanced at the rack beside the door and John’s shotgun was missing, but that didn’t mean much. The police certainly would have taken the gun with them to do tests on, if it had still been there when we discovered the scene.
The teapot was dry as a bone, of course. I checked.
I tiptoed to the kitchen cupboard, uneasy in this empty, eerie house where John’s violent death was still very much a reality. The house would probably never be the same, to Francy, anyway, if she ever got the chance to come back to it. I had spent a lot of time with her in this kitchen, sitting at the big table, sorting herbs and gabbing, talking about pregnancy and babies, Francy’s commercial art business and my puppets. We never spoke about the past. We rarely talked about John, or about Francy’s life before Cedar Falls. She was one of those people who lived in the moment, completely. I only hoped that the “moment” she was in now, presumably at Aunt Susan’s, wasn’t as awful as this kitchen was.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 10