“Me either,” Eddie said.
“I don’t think they’re very complicated, Robin, but yes, okay. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes, and then we can talk about what to do next. Meet me here tomorrow morning, and bring a urine sample with you.”
“What?” Robin looked totally grossed out.
“A urine sample. You know what that is, for pity’s sake. These tests measure the hormone levels in your pee. Best to save some of your first pee of the morning. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Good. Pee into an apple-juice bottle and then nobody’ll know except you.” Sad, really, that these kids can deal with the messy, sticky business of copulation, but they can’t deal with talking about urine. Go figure.
“Now, I suppose I’ve got to go and call Becker and find out about Vic. Just what I wanted to do with my Sunday.” An hour earlier, I’d been feeling fresh and relaxed. Now I felt like a grumpy old bat.
“I got a call this morning from one of the nurses in the cardiac unit at Laingford Memorial,” Becker said, when he picked me up an hour later at the farm. “I know her. She was there when we brought him in yesterday. She said that Vic died last night around six p.m., but she thought there was something funny about it, so she called me. That’s all she would say, and she asked that we didn’t use her name. So I called Morrison, and he said he would look into it. About two hours later, he called me back and said we’d better go in, you, me and Bryan, too, and tell them about what happened at the falls yesterday.”
“Sounds awfully fishy,” I said.
“They’re not going to arrest you, are they, Dad?” Bryan said from the back seat. “Can they arrest a police officer?”
“No, son—I mean, yes, of course they can arrest a policeman if he’s broken the law, but no, they’re not going to arrest any of us. They just want a statement about what happened, like I told you.”
“And they probably want you to tell them exactly what you saw when Vic went over the falls,” I added. “You’re an important witness, Bryan.”
“Cool,” Bryan said, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.
“You’re sure you didn’t see anybody else up there, eh?” Becker said.
“Well, I wasn’t looking there, I was finding a stick to throw for the dogs,” Bryan said. “I don’t know what made me look up—maybe he yelled or something. I can’t remember.”
“You’d better try and remember, Bryan,” Becker said, rather sharply, I thought. “It could be important.” Bryan didn’t respond, and I stole a sideways glance at Becker. His face was hard, and his lips were set in a thin line. It was probably difficult, I reflected, having a cop for a father.
The Laingford OPP station wasn’t exactly a hive of activity when we arrived. All the police cruisers were lined up in their spots outside like sleepy cows, and there was nobody at the front desk.
“Nobody commits any crimes in Kuskawa on Sundays, I take it,” I muttered to Becker, who had let us in with his key. He frowned at me.
“If you call 911, it’s patched through to the Barrie office, and there are local officers on duty at all times,” he said with some severity. When Becker’s in cop-mode, his sense of humour disappears completely. It’s one of the things I don’t much like about him. What would it be like living with him, I wondered? Would he slip in and out of cop-mode in a domestic setting? Would he go all official and disapproving over his breakfast egg? I’d seen him do this eerie switch from sensitive lover to arresting officer a couple of times already, and it wasn’t pretty.
We found Earlie Morrison and Marie Lefevbre, his temporary partner while Becker was on vacation, in the desk area in back. Morrison was typing one-fingered on an old IBM electric, and Marie was sitting on the edge of the desk, leaning over him in what I thought was a slightly flirtatious way. Morrison had a besotted look on his face and barely noticed when we came in.
“Oh, hi, sir,” Lefevbre said to Becker, slipping off the desk and coming to a kind of attention. She said “sir” in a way that meant, while she may have been obliged to address him as her superior, she didn’t really consider him one. Aunt Susan, if she’d been there, would have called her tone insolent.
“Thanks for coming in, Becker,” Morrison said. “And thanks for calling us about Vic Watson. We got a statement from a couple of the nurses on duty at the hospital, and for sure there was something weird about his death. They’re still trying to figure out what killed him, but I’d bet it wasn’t a simple heart attack.” Morrison eased his considerable bulk out of the small police-issue chair into which he had been squeezed and stood up. “Hey, Goat-girl,” he said to me. “How’s it goin’?”
“Not too bad, Earlie,” I said. “Eddie and Susan send their love.” Morrison was Eddie Schreier’s unofficial Big Brother, having taken the kid under his wing after Eddie’s real father had abandoned him for a life of sin with a holy roller in the States. Eddie’s mom was out of the picture for some rather complicated reasons I won’t go into here, and my Aunt Susan had invited him to go live with her. Earlie, a former professional wrestler, coached Eddie in the sport at Laingford High, as well as privately. Earlie maintained that Eddie was Olympic material—a kind of prodigy, although the kind of wrestling Eddie had been doing with his girlfriend would, I thought, burst that bubble pretty handily. I could just imagine Earlie’s reaction if Eddie told him he was giving up wrestling to become a teenage dad. Ouch.
“Sorry to drag you in here on a Sunday,” Morrison said. “Thing is, that if Watson’s dive into the Oxblood Falls yesterday was no accident, and Becker here gives me the impression that it wasn’t—well, we may have a murder investigation on our hands, so we gotta get all the details we can.”
“Have you interviewed the Camera Club yet?” Becker said.
“Now Becker, you’re on vacation, eh? And you’re a witness, not the investigating officer, so don’t you worry how we’re handling things.” This was not a remark calculated to put Becker’s mind at rest. I could see that Morrison was enjoying himself. “Marie, why don’t you take young Bryan here into the coffee room and get his story, and I’ll interview the adults?”
“I don’t want Bryan interviewed alone,” Becker said.
“Why not?” Morrison said. “We won’t use the tactics his dad uses. We’ll do everything nice and easy.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Becker said.
“Nothing, nothing. Just a little joke. But Becker, no kid tells the whole story when his dad’s in the room. Ain’t that so, Bryan?” Bryan, mesmerized perhaps by Morrison’s deep, chocolate-covered voice, nodded.
“There. What’d I tell you?”
“What are you pulling here, Morrison?”
“Just going by the book, Becker.”
“Let Polly go too, then,” Becker said. “She won’t coach him. C’mon, Morrison. Ease up.” Morrison gazed at Becker for a long moment, maybe weighing how far he could push his colleague. I wasn’t sure why he was playing this game, except that Becker had pulled rank on him more than once, and I supposed that the temptation to do the same was too much to pass up.
“Okay, I guess that’d be all right. Marie?”
“Fine by me, Earlie. You want me to get a statement from her, too?” “Her” was me. I knew this because officer Lefevbre poked a thumb in my direction as if I wasn’t there. Morrison nodded.
“So, kid, you go with the ladies, and I’ll have a chat with your dad, okay? I think you may find a box of Timbits on the table in there, too. Help yourself.”
Bryan looked to Becker for guidance. Becker nodded, although he didn’t look terribly pleased.
As Bryan and I followed Constable Lefevbre down the corridor to the coffee-room, I heard Morrison begin the interview. “Now, for the record, you are Detective Constable Mark Becker, living at 67 Lakeview Crescent in Laingford?” I just hoped they wouldn’t come to blows.
Twelve
Got your groceries? Need a stop?
R
est your feet at our in-store coffee shop!
—A sign in the Kountry Pantree bakery section
The coffee room at the Laingford cop shop was a miniature version of the Tim Hortons donut shop across the highway. There were orange plastic chairs and several small round formica tables, a Tim Hortons coffee maker and, on a shelf over the sink, a number of cans of Tim Hortons coffee and Tim Mugs hanging on cup hooks. It was like a shrine. Constable Lefevbre must have noticed my astonishment and said “when they renovated the Tim’s last month, they gave us a lot of their old stuff.”
If you’re not from around here, you probably don’t know about the Canadian love affair with coffee and donuts. We have more donut shops per capita than anywhere in the world. The town or village you’re in may only have a population of 500, but you can bet your bippy that it has a Tim Hortons, or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Tim Horton was a popular hockey player who died suddenly in a car crash in the 70s, not long after establishing the franchise with a partner. His death shocked the nation. Presently a curiously church-like atmosphere crept into each Tim Hortons outlet and reverent fans met there to comfort each other. The coffee and cruller became a sacrament, the terminology (large double-double and a maple dip to go, please) morphed into a kind of liturgy, and a Canadian institution was born. Now, when you invoke the Horton name, every Canadian from coast to coast knows what you mean, although they won’t think of hockey. Homesick Canadian peacekeepers on a mission to the Middle east were comforted not long ago by a much publicized shipment of Tim’s coffee to their warship, and many weary world travellers have made the Tim’s at the Toronto airport their first stop after customs. The relationship between Tim Hortons and Canadian police officers is likewise the stuff of legend. Wherever there’s a police station, a Tim’s beacon shines nearby, and if, in the dead of night, you want some constabulary help, all you have to do is follow your nose to the source of hot fat and caffeine.
Constable Lefevbre put a pot of coffee on and handed Bryan a box of Timbits, the bite-sized donuts purported to be the “holes” left over from making the big ones.
“Now,” Lefevbre said when we were settled at one of the round tables, “can you tell me in your own words what happened yesterday, Bryan?” Bryan’s mouth was full, and he waited a long time before he answered her.
“Do you have a napkin?” he said. “My hands are sticky.” With a “tsk” of impatience, Lefevbre found one and handed it to him. He wiped each finger carefully.
“We were on a hike, right?” I said. The police officer frowned at me and made a little “shush” motion with her mouth. Oh, yeah. No coaching. Bryan reached for another Timbit, but Lefevbre moved the box out of his reach. “In a sec, Bryan. Tell me the story first, okay?”
“Not much happened,” Bryan said. “We were on the path to the falls and I went ahead with Polly’s dogs and saw the guy fall, that’s all.”
“You saw him fall over the falls?” Lefevbre said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Was he by himself, Bryan?”
“I forget. I didn’t see.”
“Either you forget, or you didn’t see . . . you can’t have it both ways.”
Bryan looked away. There was something he wasn’t telling us. I shifted uncomfortably on my plastic seat.
“Did the man yell before he fell?” Lefevbre said. Bryan nodded. “Is that why you looked up?” He nodded again.
“He did a kind of somersault into the water,” Bryan said. “I saw him go over the falls and then he disappeared and then he came up again and he wasn’t moving and I ran back to get my dad.”
“Okay, good,” Lefevbre said, turning to me. “And you, Ms. Deacon, you were back along the trail with Detective Becker, right?”
“That’s right,” I said. (I didn’t say we were playing photographer and model, and maybe we weren’t thinking about Bryan much. I felt guilty about that. It could have been Bryan in the water, and the story could have been a lot worse.)
“How far back on the trail were you?”
“Oh, a hundred feet or so, I guess. It didn’t take us more than a moment to run to the bottom of the falls. Becker had him halfway hauled out by the time Bryan and I got there.”
“Did you hear anything while you were on the trail?”
“Just the roar of the falls, sort of muffled by the trees,” I said, then I turned to Bryan. “Hey, Bryan. How could you hear Vic yell over the sound of the falls? He must have yelled pretty loud, eh?”
Bryan then nodded enthusiastically. “Real loud,” he said.
“So you’re sure there was nobody with the man at the top of the falls, Bryan?” Lefevbre said.
“I was looking for a stick to throw for the dogs,” Bryan said. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong, and I didn’t see anything.”
“Why would anyone think you were doing something wrong?” I said, but Bryan had reached out to the donut box and was choosing another Timbit, ignoring me.
“I guess that’s all we’re going to get,” Lefevbre said. “The guy slips, Bryan sees him go over the falls, and he gets rescued by our hero, Mark Becker. Good thing you folks were there.” I felt a twinge of annoyance that she had left me out of the rescue equation, but it wasn’t worth mentioning. Remembering the triumphant moment when Vic had yacked up river water all over Becker and started breathing again—that was enough. Although Vic had died anyway, later, which I supposed meant that Becker and I would have another ghost to add to our growing collection. Hooray.
“You two stay here for a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.” Lefevbre said and left the room. Bryan continued to work his way stolidly through the remaining Timbits, chewing mechanically and obviously not tasting them.
“Bryan,” I said, very quietly, “I think there’s something you saw that you’re not telling us for some reason. Nobody can make you tell, but just think for a second. If the police don’t know about it, they might make a mistake. It would be like trying to do a jigsaw puzzle without having all the pieces.”
“What’s a jigsaw puzzle?” Bryan said. I sighed.
“It would be like trying to log on to the Internet without knowing what the password is,” I said.
“Oh,” he said and lapsed into silence again. I gave up, for the moment. Maybe he hadn’t seen anything at all and was just revelling in the extra attention. I didn’t want to tell Becker my suspicions for fear that he would start grilling the boy. I had a pretty good idea that Bryan could be as stubborn as Becker, and I wasn’t keen to start a war. Bryan might just come up with the missing piece (if there was one) on his own when he had ceased to be the star attraction.
Becker was in a less than charming mood when we all met up again in the reception area of the station.
“Everything go okay?” he said to Bryan, who gave him a sullen nod. “Did you remember anything more?” Bryan shook his head.
“Morrison’s not telling me a goddamned thing,” Becker said to me. “I was the one who called him after that nurse called me, and now he’s acting like I’m a civilian. I feel like ploughing him one.”
“That’s probably what he wants,” I said. “To get you mad, I mean.”
“What he wants is to impress that little blonde copette,” Becker said. “The sooner this week’s over and I can get back to work, the better. I should talk to the staff sergeant and see if I can come back earlier. Morrison could botch this whole thing.”
Bryan was looking apprehensively at his father. “What would happen to me, Dad?” he said. “Mom’s in Calgary, remember?”
Becker looked at him, then at me. Hoo boy, I thought. Instant Mom I ain’t.
“I have this Kountry Pantree project to do,” I said, apologetically. “Deadlines, eh?”
“He’d be no trouble,” Becker said.
“I don’t want to be with her at that stupid old cabin,” Bryan said. “I want to do stuff with you.”
“Watch your mouth,” Becker said. “Polly’s home is not stupid.”
“It is so. She doesn’
t even have a toilet, for Chrissake.” Hearing “for Chrissake” coming out of the mouth of an eight-year-old is not nice. I flinched. Becker lost his temper.
“That’s enough!” he shouted. “One more word and you’re spending the rest of the week in bed.” We drove into town in heavy silence. I could feel Becker’s ring, like a cold question, lying next to my skin. The unanswered marriage thing reminded me of Eddie and Robin and the favour I had promised to do for them.
“Can you stop off at the drug store for a moment?” I said. “I have to pick up a couple of things.” Becker waited with the engine running while I crossed the street and went into Downtown Drugs. I guessed that he might want to have a word or two with his son while I was gone, so I didn’t hurry.
The store was quite crowded, and I exchanged polite greetings with several people I knew. I got a basket and put into it some toilet paper and toothpaste I didn’t need and a large package of sanitary napkins. I was perfectly well aware that I was stalling, waiting until the coast was clear. I had been the one to tell Eddie and Robin that it was childish to skulk about in a drugstore, but of course now that I was there, I understood their reluctance perfectly. The lineup at the till was thinning, and I wanted to time it so that I was alone, one-on-one with the cashier, whom I didn’t know. I scuttled down the aisle to the pregnancy tests, chose one quickly, buried it deeply in the basket between the Kotex and the Cottonelle, and then lurked at the end of the line, feigning interest in the chocolate display. O, cowardice.
Moments later, Theresa Morton, Aunt Susan’s assistant at the feed store, emerged from the cosmetics aisle and joined the queue. We chatted about this and that, and I decided to brazen it out. After all, the pregnancy test wasn’t for me, but to point that out would have drawn attention to it. One doesn’t automatically observe what one’s friends are buying at the drugstore, does one?
Making sure my shaming purchase was well camouflaged by its companions, I bade a cheery farewell to Theresa and headed back outside to Becker’s Jeep. Becker was tapping his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, and Bryan had been crying. More silence. What fun family life must be. I yearned for the calming, unconditional companionship of Lug-nut, Rosencrantz and the squirrels in my roof.
Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 59