“Hey, Polly. You okay?” Becker said and touched my head. “Did you damage anything?”
I groaned and struggled to sit up. Becker helped me by putting his arm around my shoulders, and I leaned into him, smelling clean police-uniform and his distinctive aftershave. (Obsession for Men. He told me once that his ex-wife buys it for him every year as a divorce-iversary present.)
“George,” I said. “Is George dead?”
“Dead? Of course not. Just really angry. Morrison’s sitting on him inside.” An image flashed into my mind of Morrison’s large rear end filling the sofa and my old friend’s head poking out angrily from underneath. I chuckled.
“Thank God. What happened, Becker? It looks like the slaughter of the lambs, here. I thought . . .”
“I can imagine what you thought. Not as tough as you look, eh? No, I’m sorry. Keep still. This mess is pretty disgusting, but it’s goat blood, not human.”
“So what happened? Why is Susan here?”
“Ms. Kennedy says she was here when it happened. Good thing she was, too, or your Mr. Hoito could be in big trouble.”
“WHAT HAPPENED?” Becker still had his arm around me.
I didn’t move away because it was a little bit chilly, and I didn’t have a sweater on.
“The way he tells it, the dog from next door attacked one of his goats.”
“On the porch? The goats never come up here.”
“Mr. Hoito says—”
“I saw it, too,” Susan said, emerging, with Morrison and George behind her. “We heard your van arrive, then a thumping sound. Did you fall on the steps, Polly? Are you drunk? Goodness. What happened to your nose?”
I realized I hadn’t seen my aunt since the Sunday night party. Typical that she’d say all that in front of two cops.
“I’ll tell you later, and no, I’m not drunk. Just felt a little woozy, Susan. The view from here isn’t all that pleasant.”
Susan looked around at the porch, her lips set in a thin line. “I’ve seen worse,” she said. I didn’t ask her where.
“So what happened?” I said.
“We were playing Scrabble before dinner,” she said. “I heard a noise on the porch and looked out the window. A man and a dog were at the front door, but it was obvious he wasn’t a casual visitor. He had a big feed bag with him, and whatever was inside was struggling. Then he opened the bag and said something to his dog and out popped one of the goat kids and the dog just ripped it apart. It was utterly horrible. It was over in moments, and the man and the dog ran away.”
I felt sick.
“The Neighbour from Hell?” I said, rhetorically.
George let fly with a string of Finnish invective that I couldn’t hope to translate, which was probably just as well.
“George wanted to follow and shoot them both,” she said, “but I wouldn’t let him. We called the police, and I must say, they came very promptly.” She nodded in approval at Becker and Morrison. “I just hope that they’ll treat this with the severity it deserves.”
Becker had removed his arm from my shoulders as the others came out, and now he stood up.
“With your statement, Ms. Kennedy, we should be able to do something. I called Animal Control, and the dog will probably be destroyed. They’re on their way, now.”
“It’s not the dog’s fault,” Susan said. “It’s the owner of the dog who should be destroyed.” George muttered in agreement.
“The best we can do is lay a cruelty to animals charge and a vicious dog charge against him,” Becker said. “Plus damage to private property, I guess. Have you checked that the goat was one of yours, Mr. Hoito?”
“Of course I have checked,” George said. “Do you not think that I went down to the barn as soon as Susan would let go of me? That madman and his dog might have destroyed the whole herd. Yes, it was one of mine. Who else keeps goats around here? The kid was called Keanu—a buck I was rearing to be the next sire. He was valuable.”
Becker looked at me. “Is that the little guy you introduced me to last fall?” he said. I was surprised that he remembered. We had gone on a date, Becker and I, half a year earlier, and I’d taken him down to the barn because he’d never seen a goat before. The evening ended badly, but the early part of it was straight out of a Harlequin romance. Keanu, a fluffy newborn goat kid with impossibly long legs and ears and the body of a kitten, had jumped into my arms and Becker had shaken its hoof after the formal introductions were made.
“That’s the one,” I said softly. “Keanu was shaping up to be a terrific buck. He was smaller than you’d expect, but he had a lot of personality—curious, you know? Always liked to come and check out what you were up to. Buddy next door wouldn’t have had any trouble catching him, although putting him into a feed sack was probably a struggle.”
The remains of the goat kid, Keanu, had been wrapped in a green garbage bag and placed at the bottom of the porch steps. I hadn’t noticed it until Morrison picked it up and put it in the trunk of the cruiser. Amazing, really, how little bulk there was. Alive, a six-month-old goat kid is a whirlwind of energy, all legs and bleats and inquisitive nose. Dead, it’s about the size of a small suitcase. I didn’t ask to see it. Judging from the mess on the porch, there wouldn’t be much to recognize or to pat goodbye.
The cops got ready to leave, saying they were going next door to pay the Neighbour from Hell a visit. The Animal Control vehicle hadn’t shown up, but they said they wouldn’t wait for it.
“They will shoot the dog right away?” George asked. It sounded as if he would have liked to watch.
“No, Mr. Hoito. There are formalities that have to be observed,” Becker said. “You and Ms. Kennedy will have to make formal statements. We’ll do that tomorrow at the station.”
“What about the guy?” I said. “You’re not going to arrest him? As soon as you’re gone, he could come over here again.”
“There’s not much we can do about that, Polly,” Becker said.
“Can’t we file a restraining order or something?”
“You can apply to do that, certainly, but these things take time.”
“So you’re saying that this guy, who just murdered one of George’s goats on the front porch, never mind what he did to his grandkids, gets off scot-free and we have to sit here quaking in our boots for the foreseeable future? Isn’t this incident, as you’ll probably call it, sort of like a death threat?”
“What Mr. Gamble did or did not do regarding his grandchildren has no bearing on this incident,” Becker said. “They’re unrelated.”
“How can you possibly believe that?” I said.
“If it came down to a court of law, any previous tendency toward criminal behaviour in one case is not admissible evidence in relation to another,” he said.
“But it’s obvious that he did this goat thing to get back at George for squealing on him, isn’t it?”
“That’s conjecture only. You can’t put someone in jail for uttering a death threat to a goat,” he said.
“He didn’t utter a death threat to a goat,” I said. “He killed one.”
“Public mischief,” Becker said.
“Mischief??” George roared. “You call this mischief? Does this man have to murder us in our beds before it becomes a serious matter?” He didn’t wait to hear the answer but stormed back into the house, heading, I feared, for the scotch.
“Oh, it’s a serious matter already,” Becker called to George’s back. “It’s just that we can’t arrest him and take him away. He has rights, you know.”
“And we don’t? Don’t you think he’s a danger to us?” Susan said.
“I didn’t say that,” Becker said. “I think you should lock your doors tonight.”
“Oh, excellent. Lock our doors. Thanks, Becker,” I said.
The Animal Control vehicle, a battered green pickup with a Ministry of Natural Resources logo on the side, came down the driveway, and Becker went out to meet it. Morrison jingled his keys and turned to Susan.<
br />
“I finish my shift at midnight. I’m coming back,” he said.
“Thanks, Earlie,” Susan said. “I think I’ll stay, too.”
“What about Eddie?” I asked, thinking of Susan’s sixteen-year-old ward, Eddie Schreier.
“Eddie can look after himself for one night,” Susan said. “He’s not a baby, Polly. I’ll call him. Besides, it’s not fair to get him involved in this. He’s had enough grief in his life already.” Eddie’s mother was in a psychiatric facility in North Bay, and his father had moved to the States. He had been living with Susan since the previous fall and was doing well, though Susan said he still had nightmares about the events surrounding what was known as the Cedar Falls murders.
“Well, if you two are going to stay with George, I’m going home,” I said. “I’ve got some work to do, and I’m beat.”
“Is that wise?” Susan said, making it plain that, in her opinion, it wasn’t.
“I don’t think old man Gamble even knows there’s a cabin up there,” I said, referring to my place, which was hidden in the woods on the hill at the back of George’s property. “He has no reason to connect me with this mess. If you’re worried about my safety, don’t. Luggy’ll be with me.”
Morrison, who had been through this kind of thing with me the previous fall, when there had been a killer on the loose and I had been directly involved, knew better than to comment. He just gave me one of those “Earl the Destroyer” warning looks left over from his pro-wrestling days. I grinned at him.
“See you later,” he said to Susan and headed for the cruiser. He had a word or two with Becker, who glanced over in my direction and shook his head. Then he called out: “Check your e-mail,” and they left, followed by the Animal Control guy.
“I don’t envy them their jobs,” Susan said.
“That’s a switch,” I said. “You used to think cops were the scum of the earth.” She glared at me.
“Everyone has the right to change her mind,” she said. “Since getting to know Earlie, I have come to appreciate the kind of thing they’re up against. You would do well to have a bit more respect for them yourself, Polly.”
“Excuse me?”
“That Becker still seems quite fond of you.” She was dead serious. I was flabbergasted.
“I recall you telling me not so long ago that I was insane to get involved with him. You practically disowned me,” I said.
“Speaking of disowning,” Susan said, “you won’t have to worry about inheriting the feed store and being chained to grain, as you used to call it, for the rest of your life. I put it up for sale today.”
“Oh, so you want me to chain myself to a policeman instead,” I said.
“If we’re going to have an argument, we might as well channel the energy into something useful at the same time. Let’s get some nice buckets of cold water and sluice down the deck while we talk. I don’t imagine George will be up to the job, and it’s the least we can do.”
“Just what the doctor ordered after a hard day of rehearsal,” I said, but followed her, because she was my aunt and had been my guardian growing up, and I was programmed to do what she said—except when it came to my personal affairs.
Twenty-Eight
MOTHER: You’ve grown into a big boy now, I’ve taught you right from wrong / So when you walk alone, my son, I’m with you all along.
-The Glass Flute, Scene i
“I’m tired,” Susan said. We were washing the goat blood from the floorboards of George’s porch, working in the appropriately crimson light of the setting sun.
“Rest, then,” I said. We had been working in silence for some time.
“I mean I’m tired of fighting the good fight,” Susan said. “Tired of struggling to keep the store afloat when that damned Agri-Am down the highway keeps undercutting me.” The Agri-Am had opened the previous summer. It was like an agricultural Wal-Mart, full of low-end American and Chinese goods at rock-bottom prices and U.S.-imported grain that was cheaper than the local stuff. They had a fleet of little delivery trucks with star-spangled cows painted on the sides and a frequent-buyer plan that gave away rubber boots and milking pails with every feed order.
When the Agri-Am first opened, Susan had gone to the local town council, demanding to know why an American-owned “big-box” feed store had been allowed to set up shop without a public debate. Council had told her that the market ruled, and a little healthy competition would be good for her. The mayor was an ex-boyfriend of hers, and they had been feuding for years. At first, Susan’s regular customers had remained loyal, but slowly and surely, the insanely low prices, huge parking lot and teenaged cashiers in fake cowboy outfits had won out.
“I’d keep fighting if I were younger,” Susan said, “but I’m going to be sixty-nine next month, Polly. I just haven’t got the oomph any more.”
I didn’t know what to say. I had grown up in Susan’s feed store, learning to sling bags of grain and birdseed, getting my first practical math lessons on her old brass cash-register and stealing pairs of zip-up overalls to wear to school, thereby creating fashion trends amongst the nerdy set. Susan had always insisted on carrying nothing but Canadian goods. She’d order American stuff if you asked for it, but it was banned from her shelves. There was a big sign in her window—“100 PER CENT CANADIAN PRODUCTS ONLY SOLD HERE.” I’d done a project in Grade Eight on Canadian/U.S. trade issues, and she’d helped me gather the information with the enthusiasm of a zealot. When the North American Free Trade Agreement was signed in the late 80s, we’d had a wake in the store—a bunch of us drinking Baby Duck and stomping around wearing rubber boots made in Mississauga.
“Do you think anyone will be interested in carrying on the business?” I asked.
“I don’t know, dear,” she said, looking sadly at me. She had always hoped I would. When I told her I was planning to pursue a career in the arts, she had been supportive, but melancholy. “Terry Morton says she’s interested, but I don’t know how she can possibly afford it. Her father certainly won’t help her. He wants her to become a funeral director.” Theresa Morton had been working for Susan for years. She was the daughter of Hunter Morton, who ran the big funeral home in town. Funny how our elders still waste a huge amount of energy choosing our career paths for us, then wringing their hands in despair when we go astray. Terry told me once that for her first date with a boy, Hunter had insisted on chauffeuring the young couple to and from the Laingford Odeon in the hearse. Now there’s an incentive to follow in Papa’s footsteps.
“If you sell the store, what on earth are you going to do with your time? And what about Eddie?” I asked. I suspected that I knew the answer already, but I had to hear it from Susan.
“Well, George has asked us to move in here,” Susan said. I didn’t say anything. My aunt and I get on reasonably well together, but the thought of her living right next door and taking over George’s life (and mine, I might add) was not terribly appealing. Still, Susan and George had been pillow-buddies for about a year now and were obviously very fond of one another. It was none of my business what George chose to do with his life, but I couldn’t help feeling a wave of jealousy. He was my friend more than he was her friend, I felt, even though they were sleeping together. It was Susan who had engineered my moving into George’s homestead cabin in the first place; she had known him before I did. But still, having your mother-figure move in on your adult turf was disquieting. I wanted to say all this, but I didn’t. I didn’t really have to. Susan’s nobody’s fool.
“There’s enough room in George’s life for all of us,” she said. “It’s not as if we’re going to get married, Polly.”
“It’s not that,” I said. Actually, I whined it, sounding like a seven-year-old who’s putting up a fight about going to the dentist. How could I possibly say “I love you, go away” in a nice way?
“It would take some of the responsibility for the goats off your shoulders,” she said.
“I like helping with the goats,” I said.
“It’s not like it’s a chore.” In addition, my contribution to the workings of George’s farm was payment in lieu of rent. It allowed me a modicum of self-respect, in spite of the fact that my income (pre-Steamboat, anyway) was about $6,000 a year. It was complicated. It was my life.
“Well, we can work the details out as we go along,” she said. “I’ve told him I would be delighted to move in, and anyway, if I sell the store, I won’t have anywhere else to go.”
“You could buy a condo in Florida,” I said. I was only kidding.
Susan’s left eyebrow shot up and nestled in her hairline. It’s a trick she has. I can do it too, a bit, but she has it down to an art. “You really don’t want me here, do you?” she said. “You’d banish me to the blue-haired ghetto first.”
I backtracked, explained I was being facetious, and spent the next little while filling her in on all the details of my life at Steamboat Theatre, to put her off the scent.
“It sounds like George will need some help around here when you’re on tour, anyway,” Susan said, quite reasonably. Oddly enough, I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Once Juliet had dragooned me into doing Jason’s job, I’d been too preoccupied with the logistics of doing it to think about how it might affect my life on the farm. Of course I wouldn’t be able to do the chores, if I was waking up in a seedy motel in Kenora, scheduled to do a show at the Kenora Public School and Young Logger’s Academy. I could only agree with my aunt, which I did, not very gracefully.
“I don’t expect the store to sell right away, anyway,” Susan said. “It’s not as if it’s a waterfront property or a frozen-yoghurt franchise. It’s a failing agri-business. If it were a car, I’d be selling it for scrap.”
It was only later, after we’d tossed the pink water over the side of the porch and I’d said my goodnights, that I realized I’d never, ever heard Susan sound so defeated. Some help I’d been. “I don’t want you here—go to Florida,” I’d more or less said. How sensitive. I felt my face burning with shame as Luggy and I tromped up the hill to the cabin.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 42