Seaweed on the Street

by Stanley Evans

  He signalled the barman and ordered pints for each of us. “An ’82 ain’t no ’55, but it’s better’n a Mazda. You seen them Hyundais? Made outta recycled plastic and sardine cans. Shit. Ain’t even got a carburetor, they got a fuel injector.” After a disgusted snort he lapsed into stuporous silence.

  I stared at the liquor bottles arranged on glass shelves behind the bar and thought about my day.

  After talking to Chief Alphonse, I’d driven north up the Malahat highway. Traffic was thin and I made good time. By six o’clock I was approaching Nanaimo, driving past a pulp mill. The mill’s belching smokestacks and sulphurous stink were like a foretaste of hell, plunked down on the forested shores of B.C. by a satanic jokester.

  Half an hour later I entered a room full of large men wearing wide-brimmed hats and showed my ID to the RCMP sergeant in charge. Within five minutes I was seated across a desk from Inspector Fred Wells. The Mountie was a man in his late 50s with a clipped moustache and the rigid bearing of a regimental sergeant major.

  I said, “I’m looking for a woman called Marcia Hunt. She disappeared years ago after marrying a member of the old Wellington motorcycle gang.” I explained what was going on.

  Wells’ air of polite attention sharpened noticeably when I mentioned Frank Harkness’s name. He looked at me through half-closed eyes and said, “Frank Harkness was a hard case. I remember him well. He was clever, good-looking and tough. Local kids destined to pump gas and sweep floors for a living joined his gang, and Harkness made motorcycle goons out of them. His bunch raised hell around here for a few years and kept this detachment pretty busy. When we put him out of business the gang disintegrated.”

  I said, “Does the name Fred Eade mean anything to you?”

  Hearing these half-forgotten names made Wells thoughtful, and his relaxing facial muscles drooped in the pull of gravity, making him seem older and less cynical. “Fred was a gofer. After Harkness bailed out, small-timers like Fred turned to other crimes. Without leaders they weren’t very successful. Fred Eade pulled a clumsy bank holdup and we put him away. Hell’s Angels rule the roost here now. Harkness’s old-time biker buddies are either dead, in jail, pumping gas or on social assistance.”

  “What happened to Frank Harkness?”

  The inspector made the slightest movement in his chair and the tendons in his neck twitched, pulling down the edges of his mouth. “The file is still open. I’ll tell you a story, and you can decide.”

  Wells collected his thoughts and said, “Harkness was an American. From Oakland, California. One of those who came to Canada after the Vietnam War. Before the war, Harkness studied chemistry at UCLA until he was conscripted into the U.S. Marine Corps. At war’s end, Harkness didn’t return to civilian life with his comrades — he was serving time in a military prison because of some black-market scam.”

  Wells fell into a glum silence for a moment, absently tapping the edge of his table with his fingers, then continued. “But in 1977 Harkness was living on a rented farm a few miles north of Nanaimo. Ostensibly, he was supporting himself as a construction worker. Harkness soon had enough money to buy the farm. He grew vegetables and raised a few sheep. To all appearances, Harkness was just another hobby farmer living on a half-cleared woodlot out in the boondocks.”

  Wells stopped speaking and stared out of the window, looking at the night sky where a distant yellow glow marked the pulp mill. He said, “Harkness’s farm was surrounded by an electrified fence, which seemed a bit elaborate for a few sheep. He discouraged visitors. People who got into his place found an inner fence, 10 feet high, topped with barbed wire. Harkness let it be known that he was breeding Doberman guard dogs inside the second fence. We found out that members of the Wellington motorcycle club often called on Harkness, so we started to keep an eye on him. Harkness had a hobby — flying. He took flying lessons. After getting his pilot’s licence he bought a new Cessna, which he kept in a hangar at the Cassidy airport. We wondered how a struggling immigrant, paying off a mortgage from his earnings as a casual construction worker, could afford all these expensive toys. So we got a search warrant and raided his place. But our timing was off, nobody was home. We penetrated the second fence, shot the Dobermans and investigated Harkness’s outbuildings. Concealed in the bush, we discovered growing sheds full of marijuana plants, as well as a well-equipped chemical laboratory. Our technical experts proved that Harkness had been making speed and mda in large quantities. We mounted a stakeout, but Harkness never showed up.

  “Months went by. Gradually we pulled officers off the case. One day, long after our raid, somebody replaced the distributor caps on Harkness’s impounded Cessna and the plane took off. When it was airborne, heading toward the mainland, the pilot radioed that he was having engine trouble, losing altitude, and was preparing to ditch in the ocean. Then the radio went dead. Within minutes a tugboat captain reported seeing a plane nosedive into the sea near Sandheads. The tugboat crew salvaged bits of floating debris. Nobody could have survived such a crash. We listened to tapes of the pilot’s conversation with Vancouver’s air-traffic controllers and we recognized Harkness’s voice. It was assumed by one and all that Harkness had drowned. Case closed.”

  Wells smiled, savouring these memories. “But some of us weren’t completely satisfied so we spent a ton of money and salvaged that wrecked Cessna. There was no body strapped into the pilot seat. One of the aircraft’s doors had been removed prior to takeoff.”

  Wells stood abruptly and faced the window, clasping his hands behind his back. He said, “We think that Harkness took the Cessna from Cassidy airport and flew to another landing strip, where he unscrewed the door from its hinges. He then took off again, wearing a parachute. After establishing course and contacting Vancouver’s air-traffic control, he put the Cessna on autopilot and bailed out. If our guess is right, Harkness was faking his own death so that we’d quit looking for him. He’s has never been seen since.”

  Wells walked outside to the parking lot with me. We stood in silence by my car and looked at the glowing sky. Wells’ voice dropped several decibels and he added, “Harkness has been on the run for over 20 years. Keep this under your hat, Seaweed, but at this point I’m not sure I really want him. It would be a bit unsporting to jail him now.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The bartender at Bartholomews said, “You want another beer?”

  I shook my head and got down from the stool, stiff from sitting too long. The philosopher was long gone. Half a dozen new drinkers separated me from the door now. Outside the door, a passageway led to a dining room and to Bartholomews’ oyster bar. I felt hungry and was wondering whether to have dinner when a tall, gorgeous blonde appeared in the doorway. I froze. It was the woman I’d seen in the Bengal Room with Alex Cal and Jiggs Murphy. The blonde hesitated on the threshold, then turned away and walked on toward the oyster bar. The two pimps were right behind her. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I turned. It was Sarah Williams. Dark glossy hair brushed prettily across her shoulders in a slight forward curve. She wore a short, layered silk dress and matching patent-leather pumps. Her voice was beautiful, too, with deep, mysterious undertones.

  She said, “Well, well. Silas Seaweed.”

  I grinned at her.

  “I’ve been looking at you for half an hour. You were gazing at those bottles behind the bar. I thought you were drunk at first.”

  “I’m a deep thinker.”

  “I know you are. I’ve been making inquiries about you.”

  “It’s supposed to be the other way round. Need I be alarmed?”

  “I don’t think so. But there’s more to you than meets the eye. You’re not exactly the pemmican-chewing savage you sometimes pretend to be. In fact, you’re quite a scholar.”

  “You’ve obviously been misled.”

  “Don’t be modest. Face it, Silas. Your dad was a Salish chieftain and you were a scholarship boy at St. Michael’s. That’s Charles Service’s alma mater. As B.C.’s boarding schools go, it does
n’t get much better than that. After St. Michael’s you studied law at UVic.”

  “Anthropology.”

  “Really? Well, you played rugby, I know that for sure. They called you Sacker Seaweed.” She laughed and shook her head. “Weren’t you on the team that played the All Blacks?”

  “Listen,” I said, “have you had dinner?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Let’s drop by Thrifty’s. Pick up some groceries, a bottle of Gala Keg. We’ll fry something up.”

  “Fry!” Sarah frowned at the dirty verb. “Tell you what. Why don’t you buy me a drink and we’ll review your entire history? Afterward we can go to my condo. I’ve got smoked salmon, other things.”

  “You’ve got a condo? I thought you lived at Ribblesdale.”

  “At the moment I do. But I like my privacy sometimes.”

  “Don’t we all,” I said and signalled the bartender.

  Sarah asked for a champagne cocktail. I ordered another Foster’s.

  Sarah said, “Somebody told me you have a wife somewhere. A podiatrist.”

  “Had a wife. Nancy was a dentist. But that’s enough about me. I’m trying to imagine you as a schoolgirl. I’ll bet you were a skinny kid with big horn-rimmed glasses who played clarinet in the school band.”

  “No way. I was an ugly fat broad with pimples. Teeth braces and no tits, an absolute horror,” she said, smiling. “My idea of a good night out was coffee and cakes with sorority sisters, discussing the history of existentialism or something equally light-hearted.”

  Sarah put her hand on my thigh and gave it a playful squeeze. “Then I discovered boys. I stopped reading Kierkegaard and whadda you know? My pimples cleared up. What I find attractive about you, Silas, is that you’re impetuous. I’ve always liked that in a man.”

  We finished our drinks and went out. We planned to stroll along the causeway. Instead of a condo smorgasbord we were going to have dinner at the Ocean Pointe Resort. After that, who knew? Sarah took my hand. Another Harlequin Romance was beginning its maiden voyage.

  Suddenly a gang of Sarah’s friends spilled out from the Union Club and swept us up in their merriment. They were all going to a house party in the Uplands and insisted we join them, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Giggling and flirting, they all piled into a stretch limousine waiting for them at the curb. I didn’t know any of them.

  I had been slightly drunk, but now I was sober.

  What the hell was I doing with Sarah Williams? Didn’t I have enough dramatic fantasies complicating my life already?

  I sidled away and hid like a thief in the Union Club’s grandiose shadows until the limo drove away with its cargo of fun-seekers. I walked to the McDonald’s on Douglas Street and ordered a Quarter Pounder with fries and enough Pepsi to dissolve my tooth enamel. It tasted great.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I woke up feeling like I had a stoker’s sweat rag in my mouth. After an inch of toothpaste, two cups of black coffee and five minutes with a Mach3 Gillette razor, I probably looked about normal. I drove through the Oak Bay village and at Monterey Avenue, past the Blethering Place tea room with its fake-Tudor façade. I wondered whether Frank Harkness had rendezvoused with Marcia Hunt in there — softening her up with cups of tea and hot buttered crumpets. Him in a leather biker’s jacket and black leather boots. Her in pearls, a grey dirndl skirt, white cotton blouse, a navy-blue blazer with a St. Margaret’s crest on its breast pocket.

  The village of my schooldays had all but vanished. The Oak Bay Cinema and most of the old houses were long gone, replaced by upscale dress shops and galleries and places selling antiques. A bulldozer was flattening a once grand, now shabby Victorian house near Yale Street to make room for another brick and concrete condominium. A girl in a bright yellow vest was directing cars around the site, and traffic stalled for a minute. I glanced in my rear-view mirror and noticed a green Toyota Corolla right behind me.

  An elderly gentleman wearing a dark business suit came skateboarding down the avenue with a briefcase tucked under his arm, weaving gracefully as he swept past stationary cars. Where was he going? Who was he? Maybe it was the mayor, trying to jazz up Oak Bay’s image as a little bit of eccentric Olde England. I got past that obstruction at last, but a minute later came to a halt behind a vintage Bentley that had stopped on a winding section of Foul Bay Road. The Bentley’s driver, a tiny, ancient woman with a lace shawl across her narrow shoulders, had yielded to a family of mallard ducks. The ducks waddled fatly across the road, but what they were doing so far from the ocean was a mystery — they should have been a mile away, paddling around the Oak Bay Marina.

  The green Toyota was following two cars behind me now.

  A man raking leaves in a nearby yard gave me a friendly nod. He pointed at the ducks and said, “Wonderful, isn’t it?”

  I said, “What beats me is how baby ducks can walk this far into town without getting killed by dogs or raccoons.”

  The man grinned. “There’s probably an Oak Bay bylaw against it.”

  Somebody honked impatiently. The ducks had gone and the Bentley was moving. The gardener laughed and said, “People! What’s their hurry?”

  I drove a couple of blocks and turned up Calvert Hunt’s curving sun-drenched driveway. The Chinese gardener was absent. This time when I rang the bell the front door was opened by Iris Naylor. There was something pathetically drab about her today. Her clothes seemed second-hand and she looked as if she’d recently drenched her hair in ultra-strength black coffee. Her nostrils flared in a sneer. She was letting me know that she wasn’t accustomed to opening doors for anybody, and certainly not to Natives wearing jeans and open-necked shirts.

  “What do you want?” she said, drawing in her chin and staring down her nose.

  I didn’t get it. Iris Naylor was acting as if she’d never seen me before. I gave her my card and said sweetly, “Is Mr. Service here today?”

  “No. Mr. Service has been away for a day or so.”

  Her eyes were hostile, and the door began to close in my face. I tried to think pleasant thoughts and smiled. “I’ve heard Mr. Service say how much he relies on you, Miss Naylor.” This was a lie, but it had the desired effect.

  The door stopped closing. She put one hand to her neck and touched an imitation pearl necklace with long slender fingers. She didn’t smile, but I sensed layers of glaciation melting. She glanced at my card.

  “As you know, I’m doing some work for Mr. Hunt.”

  “I believe somebody did mention something of the sort, but I wasn’t expecting … ”

  She stopped speaking and gazed at her feet.

  I smiled some more and said, “I’d be grateful, Miss Naylor, if you could spare me a few moments of your time.”

  Curiosity overcame her. She unbent a fraction and said primly, “I don’t think we can discuss this on the front doorstep, do you?” The door opened wider. “Perhaps you’d care to come to my apartment? I’ve been frantically busy and was just about to have a cup of tea.”

  Iris Naylor’s “apartment’” turned out to be a modest bed-sitting room in the basement. To reach it we first passed through a spacious lounge where a valuable Emily Carr painting was hanging over a carved marble mantelpiece.

  She stopped before it and said, “That’s an original. Totems at Cormorant Island. Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. And I’ve seen it before. On the day Harry Cuncliffe was murdered.”

  At the word murdered she shuddered. Her right hand went to her throat. But the gesture was studied, phony. She collected herself with a visible effort and said, “Such a horrid day. But I’m afraid that I don’t remember much about it.”

  “There’s no reason why you should,” I said. “If memory serves, you were on vacation at the time.”

  She seemed bereft of speech.

  “That’s right, isn’t it?” I said, pressuring her for a response.

  “Sorry,” she said, in a tone that implied the opposite. “You were one of the policemen on th
e case?”

  “Initially. But that was a busy time for us. We had an arsonist on the loose. Plus there’d been a killing over in Vic West, so the detective squad was spread thin. I was assigned to other duties. Detective Chief Inspector Bulloch was in charge of the Cuncliffe homicide.”

  “Is that the way it works?” she said, turning away without waiting for my answer.

  The single room was sparsely lit by two tiny windows. No sunlight could enter because the panes were crowded by thick shrubbery. A narrow bed lay half-hidden behind a folding bamboo screen. Beside the bed was an immense mahogany wardrobe, an unmatched dressing table and a couple of bamboo side tables. A worn Axminster rug did what it could to hide the room’s cracked linoleum floor tiles. Two lumpy armchairs flanked a glass-topped coffee table where a tea tray was set for one.

  Apart from a few cheap etchings of the Stag at Bay variety, there were few pictures, books or personal touches. Evidently the room had been furnished with random cast-offs from upstairs. It was a depressing, gloomy place and I wondered why Iris Naylor chose to live in it. Suddenly I felt sorry for this stern-faced woman.

  She said, “Please sit down. If you’d like to join me with tea, I’ll fetch another cup and saucer.”

  I accepted and sank into one of the lumpy armchairs. As soon as she went out, I rose from the chair and went behind the bamboo screen. A silver picture frame lay face-down on her dressing table. I turned it over and saw a photograph of a young Charles Service. He was standing on a tennis court holding a racquet. The picture was inscribed, “To dear Iris. Love and kisses, Charlie.” I replaced the picture and put my hand on the dressing table’s drawer knob, but was overtaken by a sense of shame. What did I expect to find? Faded love letters wrapped in pink ribbon? Contraceptives? A gun? Miss Naylor’s footsteps sounded outside so I sat down, relieved.

  Iris Naylor poured tea from a large bone-china pot into mismatched cups and saucers. She said, “I think morning tea is so much better than coffee, don’t you?”