“What about now?”
“Now? Dunno. Now maybe I’ll stay. We’ll see.”
“How much money did John say he had to raise for his machinery?”
“Four hundred, he said. He got it, too, for the table and that old washstand that was in the hall. Amazing what old furniture is worth these days, eh?”
“So did he buy whatever he was going to buy, do you think?”
“I doubt it. He probably drank it or gambled it away or paid back whoever he owed four hundred bucks to. Unless he hid it somewhere and it’s still here. Hey. You think it is?”
“Could be. We could look.”
Francy stood up quickly. It was the most animated I’d seen her in a while. “Let’s do it. I could use that money real bad right now.”
We looked. It turned into a weird kind of treasure-hunt, opening all the drawers and checking behind pictures and under loose floorboards. Francy got it into her head that the police had looked for it already. She said that there were things that were a little bit out of place, a little wrong, but I explained that the cops hadn’t even known about the money-thing until yesterday, and they hadn’t had time. Then I remembered Eddie and the noise I’d heard upstairs. Had Eddie searched the house? Had he been looking for the money? Why? How could he have known about it?
I didn’t tell Francy this. I only had the barest suspicion, and it still seemed likely that Eddie had come back to get the D.H. Lawrence book. It was confirmed a moment later when I asked Francy where it was and she couldn’t find it.
“I put it back right here,” she said, pointing to an empty space on the bookshelf. Francy had a lot of books. She bought them at garage sales and scavenged them from the dump. She was crazy about them and knew exactly what she had. If she said the book was missing, I believed her.
“I guess Eddie must have snuck in and grabbed it,” Francy said. “Good for him.” That explained that. I could cross him off the list. After all, there was no way Eddie could have been mixed up in a gambling debt. He wasn’t even allowed to look at a deck of cards.
After about an hour of searching, we admitted defeat and went back to the kitchen. The house was very quiet, but it had lost its previous eerie feeling. It felt lived-in again, and now that the kitchen was back to normal, it was just a house.
We had another cup of tea and as I pulled my smokes out of my jacket pocket, something else fell out and landed on the floor. We both bent to pick it up and narrowly missed knocking heads. We came up laughing and I opened my palm to show Francy what I had dropped. It was the golden crucifix I had taken from Poe. I had completely forgotten about it.
“That’s pretty,” Francy said. “Not your style, though.”
“No kidding,” I said and explained how I’d come to have it. “I thought maybe it might have been John’s. He wore stuff like this, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but this wasn’t his. It looks familiar, though. Like one I had once a long time ago.” She reached out a finger to touch it. “It’s solid,” she said. “You think it’s worth anything?”
“You’d think so. Here,” I put it into her hand, “take it. Rico might give you a decent buck for it, eh?”
“You bet,” she said, grinning. “I’m going to wear it first, though. My grandmother gave me one like this when I was thirteen or so. I lost it and she totally flipped out and then died. Maybe if I wear it for a while her ghost will toss some good luck my way.” She fastened it around her neck and the heavy gold cross hung down between her breasts. It made her look pious, which I didn’t think quite suited her, but I just grinned back.
“Sister Francis,” I said. She lifted the pendant and looked at it closely.
“INRI,” she read. “I always wondered what that meant.”
“I think it’s Latin, or Hebrew,” I said, showing off my Catholic background. “Jesus with an 'I', of Nazareth. Rex, which is king, and Jerusalem, spelled with an 'I' too, or Judea or something.”
“Oh. I thought it was somebody’s name. Sort of like Henry.”
My dream came back to me like a whack in the face. The big red bear, the golden salmon. “You looking for ’Enry?” the bear had said. My unconscious mind must have been punning—putting the salmon in there because it was a fish, the symbol for Christ. (More Catholic stuff.) Cute. It had been an ugly dream, full of ugly foreboding. I was all at once certain that the crucifix was enormously significant and dangerous.
“Maybe you’d better not wear it until you’re sure that someone isn’t looking for it,” I said, carefully.
“How come? You think someone’s going to accuse me of stealing it? I don’t think so,” Francy said. “I’ll just say I found it at the dump.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Don’t be paranoid, Polly. Poe probably just found it in the road or something. Anyway, you gave it to me, right? I like it. I’m wearing it. Okay?”
“Hey, no sweat. Okay. Maybe it’ll work as a talisman to ward off Carla and the Holy Lambers,” I said.
Francy laughed bitterly. “It would take more than a gold cross,” she said. “Try garlic and holy water.”
Before I left I made sure that Francy was comfortable about staying there alone. She assured me that she was, explaining that she was used to it, because John had spent most of his time out partying or in his garage. We hadn’t talked about his death much, but she certainly didn’t seem to be wallowing in grief. I asked her if she needed anything in the way of groceries, seeing as she didn’t have any transportation. She scribbled out a list which she handed to me along with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill.
“I really appreciate all you’re doing for me, Polly,” she said. “The sooner I can get things back to normal the better. I have to figure out what to do with myself now that John’s out of the picture. Maybe you can teach me to drive, eh? He would never let me.”
“I’d be glad to,” I said. “Soon as the cops bring John’s truck back.”
She grimaced. “From what I hear, I’ll have to bleach the inside of it before I can use it, anyway.” I’d forgotten that. There had been bloodstains in the cab. It would be a long time before Francy was able to erase the memory of John’s death from her life. I just wished, a little, that she wasn’t so happy about it. It looked so suspicious.
“Well, we can always re-upholster,” she added, brightening. Her smile pulled the skin tight on the scarred side of her face, where it reflected the light from the window like a piece of stretched plastic. For a moment, her eyes flashed almost red.
Lug-nut was waiting for me in the back of the pick-up. He had stayed there when I drove up to the house, and when I got out, he had eyed me nervously as if he were afraid I had brought him back for good. He seemed to have no interest in jumping out and checking up on his old territory. I didn’t blame him. His life at the Travers’ place hadn’t exactly been puppy heaven. I backed out and headed for the dump.
I had prepared for my chat with Freddy by slinging a couple of full green garbage bags in the back as an excuse for going there. I wasn’t sure just what I was planning to say, and I didn’t know what I wanted from him. If he knew anything about what had happened after he had clobbered Spit over the head, Becker and Morrison would have wormed it out of him by now. Freddy might not even be at the dump. He could be locked up in a cell at the Laingford cop-shop, facing assault charges. Still, Freddy had always been reasonably friendly to me and if he was on duty, there was a chance that he might tell me something he wouldn’t tell the cops. It was worth a try.
He wasn’t in his shack when I drove up to it. I saw him off in the distance, poking through the “wood only” pile with a stick. I waved and he came over quickly, as officious as ever. As soon as he was close enough, he hollered, “Whaddya got?”
Freddy was a bean-pole, well over six feet tall, with enormous hands and feet and ears to rival Prince Charles’s. He looked like an older version of Eddie Schreier, same stickyouty Adam’s apple, same gangling walk. It was probably something in the l
ocal water.
“Hey, Freddy,” I said. “Just a couple of bags of household. You know. Food stuff. Unrecyclable plastic.”
He squinted at the dog standing guard over the garbage bags in the back of the truck. Lug-nut was growling, his hackles raised, which surprised me. Freddy was about as menacing as an old shoe. He kept his hands to himself for once, though. Normally he would have reached out and sort of felt up the bags, trying to guess what was inside, making sure that they were what I said they were.
“That’s Travers’s dog, ain’t it?” he said.
“Mine now. Francy didn’t want to look after him any more, after what happened.” I could have said she’d always hated the dog because it was John’s, but that would have been telling.
“Ugly, ain’t he?”
I laughed. “Well, head-on he is, but if you catch him in profile, he’s not so bad. Sort of noble, if you work at it. Hush now, Luggy. That’s enough.”
Freddy waited until I removed the garbage from the truck, out of Lug-nut’s reach, then he took them from me and started to carry them over to the household garbage pit. I followed him, desperately trying to come up with a way to get a conversation going. Usually, Freddy was the one with the opening gambit, but this time he was as tight-lipped as a Tory senator.
“It must be weird being here alone after a body was found here, eh?” I said. He grunted and kicked at a chicken bone with his foot. I tried again. “Lots of people coming around trying to get you to talk about it, I’ll bet.”
He looked at me slant-wise. “Nope,” he said. “You’re the only one. You and the cops.”
“They talked to you, did they?” Here was an opening. It was just like the women’s magazines. Draw him out. Get him to talk about himself.
“They interrogated me is more like it,” Freddy said. “Nazis, both of ’em. Specially the fat one. They came in here with some damn fool story Morton cooked up to explain the lump on his head. He blamed me, eh?” Freddy was looking at me carefully, gauging my reaction.
“He did??” Surprise. Outrage.
“Yup. Said I hit him. That’s a crock of shit if I ever heard one.”
“I saw him at the hospital yesterday,” I said. “He’s doing fine, but he did take quite a knock to the head. I guess he’s confused. Maybe his story is a little exaggerated, eh?”
“Huh. I’ll bet it’s mostly from the hangover. He drank most of a jug of Amato’s hooch on Sunday, then he fell down outside the hut.” Freddy pointed. “Knocked his head on the cement step there. Out cold. I dragged him over to his hearse and put him inside to keep warm while he slept it off. Did him a favour and that’s how he pays me back.”
It could easily have happened like that, I supposed, but I must have looked sceptical, because Freddy turned nasty.
“That’s what you wanted to know, ain’t it? You talked to Morton and he told you his fairy-tale, and then you come nosing over here to get my side of it. Just like the cops. Meddling.”
“Freddy, I just came to drop off some garbage, that’s all.”
“Two measly bags fulla paper, more like. I know my business, and you, Missy, should know yours. Meddling in what doesn’t concern you. You should stick to your goats.”
I froze. A vision of the ruined squirrel swam before me and I tottered a bit, remembering.
“What did you say?” I said.
“I said you should mind your own business. I got no quarrel with you, and I don’t want to start one.” He was standing very close to me—close enough that I could smell the musty coat he was wearing and see the blackheads on his skin. It was very still and there was nobody at the dump but me, Freddy, Lug-nut and a couple of seagulls. I backed away, slowly.
“Okay, Freddy. I’ll stick to my goats. You bet.”
“Atta girl. That way you don’t get hurt.”
I hopped in the cab of the truck and beat a hasty retreat, my heart pounding. That had been a threat, no question. What I couldn’t figure out was what Freddy had to do with the whole thing. Was he the one John owed money to? Was he the murderer? As far as I knew he had no connection with John or his friends, but I was fooling myself if I thought I knew everything that went on in Cedar Falls. It seemed the more clues I found, the more confused I was becoming.
If John had been shot before midnight, as I believed he had, Freddy couldn’t have killed him, because he was drinking with Spit at the dump. Was Freddy an accomplice? Was it all set up beforehand? I doubted it. Although there was a phone in the dump hut, the killer would hardly have called Freddy while Spit was there and said: “Knock him out. I’m coming over with a body I want to dump.” Would he? I would have to ask Spit if there had been any phone calls while he was whooping it up with Freddy.
I was quite sure that Freddy had been responsible for my scare of the night before, though. He had as good as admitted it. The question was, should I tell Becker about it or keep it to myself?
If I told Becker, would he search the dump hut, maybe find a package of lilac-motif notepaper and a newspaper with letters cut out of it? I decided it was probably best to drop it. I had told Freddy I would mind my own business, and around here, if you say you’ll do a thing, people generally believe you. I’d just have to be more discreet, that was all.
On my way down the dump road, I saw a tall figure walking slowly along the gravel verge, head bent, shoulders hunched. It was Eddie and as I slowed to give him a ride, he looked up mournfully. He had a black eye, a fresh one, as ugly as the one Francy had been wearing on Monday. What was this, an epidemic? One thing was certain, this bruise at least had not been caused by John Travers.
I reached over to roll down the window on the passenger side.
“Hey Eddie. Want a lift?”
“Sure. Thanks.” He climbed inside.
“Don’t tell me. It was a doorknob, right? You walked into a door.” It was tactless, I know, but I’m like that.
He grinned. “Yeah, that’s right. Late at night. You gotta pee. You get up and smack! Right into the bathroom door.” Back in theatre school we called that “follow-up”—when you take a suggestion from a fellow improviser and run with it. Eddie would have been good at improv.
“You okay?” I said.
“Yeah, thanks. You should see the door.” His jokey tone sounded hollow.
“Your dad back from that conference yet?” It was a shot in the dark, and it earned a bull's-eye. Eddie winced, as if he had been shouting “Dad” loud enough for me to hear it. So it was Samson who had hit him. Figured. Samson was short and mean as a weasel.
“Yeah. I mean, yes,” Eddie said. “He came back yesterday. Why? You want to talk to him?”
“Not especially. Listen, Eddie. I saw you over at the Travers’ place yesterday. I mean, we saw each other, right?” He blushed. Welcome to the club, I thought.
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe nothing. I saw you. It’s none of my business what you were doing over there, so I won’t even ask, okay? It’s between you, me and Lady Chatterley.”
Eddie smirked. “I don’t know why my Mom’s all upset about that book,” he said. “It’s pretty tame, really.”
“Read on,” I said. “It gets better. What I wanted to ask you though, is, did you tell anyone you saw me over there? I was wondering if you’d mentioned to someone that you saw me.”
He seemed grateful that I wasn’t probing—I guessed he got enough of that at home. If he wanted to tell me he went back for the book, and if he wanted to say who had whacked him in the eye, he would. It didn’t matter. He thought for a moment.
“Well, I might have mentioned that you took the dog, eh? I thought that was cool. John never treated that dog right and Francy never liked him either.”
“So your parents knew I was over there. Was anyone else at home when you mentioned it?”
“Well, no, but we had adult Bible class at our place later, and the text was Lazarus, so we got to talking about dogs and I might have said something again then. I don’t remember. I just
thought it was good that you took him. Real Christian. Mom thought so too. Real Christian charity, she said.”
Great. So most of Cedar Falls probably knew I’d been over to the Travers’ place to get the dog, and somebody was suspicious enough to go check to see if I’d found the truck and the gun. They’d taken the gun and told Freddy to nail a dead squirrel to my door. Charming. I was no closer to the truth, though.
“Eddie,” I said. “Someone’s trying to scare me off asking questions about John’s murder. Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“Heck, no. I don’t know nothing about it. I was just over there for a minute, honest. I hardly saw you. I was just getting that book. I went in the back way and when I heard you downstairs I got out of there. Please don’t tell my parents, okay? My Dad’ll kill me. I’ll read it and then I’ll give it back. I wasn’t stealing, I swear.”
He was freaking out and totally missing the point. It seemed cruel to ask him any more questions, so I let it go. “I know you weren’t stealing, Eddie,” I said. “Francy wants you to read the book. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you, like, helping the police or something?”
“Sort of,” I said. “Just asking questions.” I glanced sideways and saw his face turn wooden.
“Questions are dangerous,” he said. “Sometimes, you get hurt.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” I said, “but isn’t the truth worth getting hurt for?”
“I don’t know. Mostly, I think the truth is stupid. You can let me out here, Ms. Deacon. Thanks for the ride.”
I pulled over just outside the entrance to the Schreier’s driveway. Samson Schreier’s pickup was parked near the door and there was smoke coming from the chimney. Home sweet home. I watched Eddie unfold his gangly limbs from the cab. I liked the kid, but there was definitely something amiss in Jesusland. I hoped that he would be able to cope with it, whatever it was. He was too old to hope for Children’s Aid protection. I swallowed hard. When an adult suspects child abuse, what do we do when the kid is out of the jurisdiction of the act? Pray?
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