Bone Dance

by Joan Boswell

  Back upstairs, he removed the cover from the big tank, disconnected the electrical cord and set to work. First, he dipped down with a big net and hauled out Bubbles, placing her in a full, lukewarm bathtub. Then, with dark thread the same colour as the fish, he tied the salmon among the heavier plants under the large heater tube. He connected the thread to the tube and unscrewed the heater until it rested perilously in place. “CAUTION: Do Not Immerse Beyond This Point!” it warned. Finally, he replugged the main cable and waited, turning off all the lights in the house.

  As soon as Myrna opened the door, he yelled, “Come here! The power’s off, and there’s something wrong with Bubbles!” Myrna rushed over, bugged out her eyes and plunged her hand into the tank, pulling the heater element with her. “Bubbles!” was her last word.

  In the ten minutes before the ambulance came, Bill shut off the main breaker, chopped up and flushed the helpful salmon and thread, set up the fluval, and dabbed a bit of cayenne into the corners of his eyes. “I took the big fish out of her tank to give the walls a good cleaning. I guess Myrna didn’t see her, panicked and reached in to move the plants,” he told the attendants, and later the police as he blew his nose. “That fish meant the world to her.”

  Bill was given the week off to make arrangements for the funeral. Along with the obituary, he included a note that, in lieu of flowers, donations could be made to the African Knifefish Rescue Association.

  Back from a weekend of trout fishing, he made plans to return his charges to the pet store. The tanks might make attractive terrariums for the nursing home. Then Bubbles hove into view. The large, placid fish had missed her guppies and was staring out through the glass, clown dots undulating along grey velvet folds, eight on one side and six on the other. She is a beauty, Bill thought, counting the circles as he felt his heart rate slow; the tight metal coil had disappeared from his chest. Bubbles swam so gracefully . . . and so sadly. With an underslung jaw and limpid gimlet eyes, the fish could have been pouting. Bill went to the fridge and returned with a Corona and shrimp bits. “Don’t worry, Big Girl,” he said. “Daddy’s home.”

  Lou Allin introduced amateur sleuth Belle Palmer in Northern Winters Are Murder, followed by Blackflies Are Murder, which was shortlisted for an Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel, and Bush Poodles Are Murder. Her short stories have been published by Storyteller, Sou’wester, and The Dalhousie Review, and her poetry has appeared in over forty literary magazines. Visit her at www.louallin.com.

  Fry, Fry, Fry

  He was out every night at a bar

  Cheating like any rock star

  And his wife Peggy Sue

  Tried to think what to do

  when she watched him pick up his guitar.

  He had started a habit, you see,

  Picked up from his hero’s E.P.,

  Of soaking in the tub

  With his guitar unplugged

  And plucking away silently.

  He yelled out that with her he was bored

  “I found someone else,” had her floored.

  It’s obvious to you

  What she then had to do

  Yes, she plugged in the dangling cord.

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  Brian’s Song

  Linda Wiken

  Last night, I’d seen Garry Boyce for the first time in fourteen years. This morning, his body was found floating face down in the Rideau Canal. By one p.m., the Ottawa Police had tracked me down. At this point, the reality had not yet set in, but one thing I did realize—Detective Frank Czenko found the fact that I’d been the last person to see Garry alive extremely interesting. I hastened to point out that the murderer, not I, fit that category.

  “So, you left him at about midnight, is that right, Ms. Landry?”

  “Yes, officer, that’s right. We left Darcy McGee’s, where we’d met for a drink after he’d taken in a CD launch at the NAC’s Fourth Stage.”

  “And you had one drink, a scotch, and talked . . . business. Right?”

  That slight pause and his suggestive tone made me nervous, as did the fact that he’d been grilling me for the past hour. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t quite a grilling. But try feeling calm and collected in such a situation. Not that I had anything to hide.

  “You’ve got it. He was to have been my guest on my radio program tonight, and we were doing it live. I wanted to tape some atmosphere to blend into the studio interview, and I wanted to go over some things first. Make certain we were on the same page.”

  “And why wouldn’t you be?”

  Oh boy, if he needed a motive, I might be handing him one. But first I wanted to set the scene. “We met at that hour, at that location, at his request. He’d been totally tied up in this opera he was writing, which was to have been our topic, by the way.”

  “I see.” He stared while I talked, then he scribbled like mad in his notebook between questions. “So, were you concerned the program wouldn’t go too smoothly? Is that why you met with him beforehand?”

  “Something like that. He was known to have a short fuse, and I wanted to check if any areas were off limits.”

  “Like what?”

  “His new writing partnership with his one-time rival, for one. Our past relationship, for another. What was happening with his old partnership? Things like that.”

  His pen hung in mid-air. “What relationship would that be, Ms. Landry? Or do you mind if I call you Terri?”

  Now I was really worried. Wasn’t that a sure sign you were heading to the top of the suspect’s list? Call them by a first name, be friendly. Suspect, in gratitude, blurts out a confession?

  “I don’t mind, Frank. It was years ago, in university. Garry and I were an item for about a year. Maybe not quite that long. Anyway, he met a friend of mine at a party, and she became the new hit.”

  “That can rankle. Had that happen a few times myself.”

  I’ll just bet. He hadn’t asked a question, which meant I felt no need to provide an answer. We sat looking at each other for about a minute, then he caved.

  “Were you still bitter?”

  “Hardly. It’s been a long time, detective. I have had a few relationships since then. And I haven’t seen him since then.”

  “So, why now?”

  “I told you, I wanted to interview him for my show. I do an arts program on the CBC, and it’s not every day that a country music star turns his pen to writing the lyrics and libretto for an opera. Besides, he’s a home-grown star, which adds extra interest, around here anyway.”

  “And you left him at what time?”

  “Around midnight. And I came straight home.”

  “Anyone verify that?”

  “No. I live alone, and my landlord’s out of town for the weekend.”

  “And where did Mr. Boyce go after that?”

  “I have no idea. He didn’t say. I left him at the door and walked to my car, which I’d parked on Albert.”

  “Any ideas as to how he ended up face down in the Rideau Canal?”

  I’d been trying not to think about that. “None.”

  “Any ideas as to enemies or the like?”

  “None. I just told you, I hadn’t seen him for over a decade. I have no idea what’s happening in his life, except what I read and hear.”

  He stood up, almost knocking my new Ikea Oland armchair over. I tensed, wondering if he’d be pulling out handcuffs. Instead he stuck his big hairy hands, complete with notebook, in his pockets and headed to the door.

  “I’ll be getting back to you, Ms. Landry.”

  I watched the night tick past in increments of fifteen minutes. The overnight temperature dipped to the mid-twenties, and my air conditioner wasn’t working. Of course, it had to happen when my landlord was away. I’d positioned two fans to blast away at me, not that they helped very much. But what really kept my eyelids glued open were thoughts of Garry Boyce. The not quite handsome but oh so romantic Garry in our senior year at Carleton University. The late night rides in his old MGB, top d
own, racing along Highway 15 with a long stopover at the Burritt Rapid Locks. A pauper’s picnic on the cramped wooden balcony of the two-bedroom apartment he shared with a fellow music student. Rooting for the Carleton Ravens in the pouring rain, followed by the mad crush in the celebratory victory at Roosters.

  It had been fun, but at no time had I thought it would be long-term. That’s why when Garry suddenly announced he and Crystal, my roommate, were now an item, I was steamed but not totally heartbroken. Nor did I rant and tear my hair out when they were married. I also felt pleased for him when success came his way. Detective Frank Czenko had it all wrong.

  Maybe it was a mugging gone wrong. Garry’s short fuse had led to several fist fights during the time I was dating him. Or maybe it had something to do with his career. If so, his former partner, Harley Soames, might know something.

  I didn’t stop to think about the wisdom of my getting mixed up in a murder investigation. If I had, I know I would have stayed put in my toasty apartment the next morning. But I needed to know what had happened to my friend. Because when all was said and done, Garry Boyce and I had been lovers at one time.

  Also, I wasn’t totally convinced that my new “friend”, Detective Czenko, had my best interests at heart.

  I found Harley Soames at the studio he’d shared with Garry, in the Market above a trendy restaurant that opened and closed early, which went well with the music makers’ penchant for starting and ending late. They’d been a writing team for close to ten years, with songs on the chart for over half of them. Although my watch said one p.m., it looked like Harley had just dragged himself out of bed. Or maybe it was a bad case of “hat hair”. The remnants of what had probably started life as a black fedora lay crumpled on the desk next to the door.

  He pulled a chair out from behind the electric piano and pushed it towards me while he perched on one of the stools parked between the two acoustic and one electric guitar propped up to one side of the room. He’d managed to keep a Tim Hortons cup upright throughout. He sucked back some caffeine before answering my opening shot.

  “Well, we parted on friendly terms, if that’s what you’re getting at, Terri. Actually, we didn’t really part permanently, just a short separation while he got that fucking opera out of his system.” He heaved a deep sigh, took another swig, and slouched down even further.

  “Why do you think that opera was so important to him?”

  “I’m damned if I know. I’d have thought the award would have done it for him.” He looked over at the impressive glass and nickel Juno statue on top of the mixing console, the award they’d shared for the best songwriter of the year earlier this spring. “We finally hit the big fucking award time, but that’s not enough for Gar. Probably because Whiteside and him had that rivalry going on for so goddamned long. I don’t know what’s behind it all. ’Cause even though we’ve done good with country music, Garry was always moaning about being second rate, that classical was more legit or something. Probably because that’s Whiteside’s gig.”

  I almost missed his next comment. “I could’ve beat the crap out of him whenever he got going on that.”

  I hadn’t realized there’d been a serious rivalry between Garry and Jordan Whiteside. I did know they’d had some history since long before I’d entered the picture. We’d even double dated a couple of times, but that hadn’t been enough to get me an interview with Jordan when I’d called him last week. I hadn’t seen Jordan since those days, even though he was a somewhat successful Canadian composer.

  “It’s odd that they’d collaborate, in that case.”

  “Well, Whiteside wasn’t hot to trot. Garry really had to push him, but I guess he finally pressed the right button. Or maybe it was his snagging the Juno that did it. Anyway, the thing was half-finished.”

  “What was the plot? Garry was very vague when discussing it.”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I think he switched it somewhere along the line. But that’s all I know. You oughta be talking to Whiteside about this.”

  “You’re right. I have only one more thing to ask . . . about Garry’s private life. I know he and Crystal were splitting. Do you know why?”

  He shrugged. “Well, I think they just got tired of each other. It happens. That’s what it sounded like, anyway.”

  “Did Garry have any other women in his life?”

  Harley laughed. “Well, you didn’t know him very well if you have to ask that. He attracted women without even trying. Something boyish about him that women like, and being in music never hurts when it comes to scoring.” He smiled at his pun. I let it pass.

  “But was there anyone special? Anyone recent?”

  “He’d been getting some calls, which he usually cut short. Could’ve been a woman. If so, it wasn’t someone he wanted to talk to. On the other hand, there was one he’d call every day.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “Well, I can guess, but I wouldn’t tell you without being certain. And since I don’t plan to ask the lady, you’re outta luck.”

  “Did Crystal know about her?”

  “How the hell would I know? There’s not much else I can tell you. And like I said, I had no grudge against Garry, even though he ticked me off the odd time. I was using the break to stockpile some tunes, and he’d just have had to catch up with the words when he was ready to.”

  Harley Soames didn’t strike me as a man with a motive, no matter how big a pain Garry could be. As I left his studio, I reminded myself that I’d met many accomplished liars in this business, so best to keep an open mind.

  I finally got to talk to Jordan Whiteside due to sheer persistence. I literally camped in front of his house until he put in an appearance, going out the front door, Monday around noon. He recognized me, of course, and agreed to a short talk when he realized I wouldn’t pull my foot out of the open front door.

  “Of course, I was shocked about Garry Boyce. I feel badly because we were friends and also, I have to be candid, because our opera will never be finished.”

  “I thought you’d been reluctant to do the opera.”

  “Had been is correct, Terri. I had my own career track planned and an opera, especially a country one, wasn’t on it. But Garry convinced me it would be a good move for both of us. And as you probably remember, he could be very persuasive when he wanted something.”

  I tried to put thoughts of Garry and his persuasive ways, especially within the confines of the front seat of his MGB, out of my mind.

  “May I ask why you wouldn’t talk to me before?” Not that it had anything to do with the murder, but I wanted to know.

  “I’m a busy person, Terri. I just felt an interview wasn’t worth the time to me. Sorry, no offence intended.”

  “None taken.” Like hell. “Would you tell me what it was made you decide to do this opera with Garry?”

  “Sure. Money. It wouldn’t have hurt my reputation either, if it became a big hit. But Garry, always the practical one, made me see there was the potential for a lot of money in this.”

  I looked around me. From where I sat—on a teal leather sofa in a family room that put my entire place to shame—I couldn’t imagine Jordan being in need of money. But he hadn’t said that. I suppose no one’s immune to making money, even if you have plenty. Mind you, he could be mortgaged and line-of-credited to the hilt. And then there was the beautiful Amanda Whiteside, always the latest in glam whenever I’d seen her. It would take big bucks to keep her in the latest styles.

  I was just leaving, poised to step out onto the porch, when I asked my final question. “Do you know if Garry had a girlfriend on the side?”

  Jordan bristled. “How the hell would I know that?”

  The interview was ended. This time I moved my entire body out of the doorway quickly.

  Back in my car, I pulled out my cellphone and punched in the CBC number, asking the receptionist for the one person I knew lived and breathed opera, the local host of the Saturday afternoon opera program. She’d be the be
st bet to answer my question. In fact, she confirmed my suspicion that there wouldn’t be a windfall of cash coming from this opera unless it took off, like the crossover rock opera Tommy of a few years before. And neither of us could make the stretch to a country opera with music coming from Whiteside. And, even if they could manage to produce such a piece, we both had serious doubts about how successful it would be. So, what was the real reason he’d capitulated? And did it have anything to do with the murder?

  I decided to give Harley another try and hope for some additional answers this time. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to produce a copy of the script for the opera.

  “The police cleared out Garry’s desk,” he said, “and Crystal said they’d done the same at the house. Why the fuck’s it so important anyway?”

  “I don’t know if it is. I just thought I’d read it over and see if they sounded like million dollar lyrics.”

  “Well . . .”

  “You did read them?”

  “Well, no. But you know, we always make three copies of our songs. One stays here, one goes home, and the other is mailed to a post office box. In case of fire or theft. I’ll just bet good ol’ Garry did the same thing this time.”

  “Do the cops know about this?”

  “They didn’t ask.”

  I smiled. “Could we go check it out?”

  He smiled. “Be my fuckin’ pleasure, ma’am.”

  It took about three minutes to walk the two blocks to Desjardins Pharmacy, boasting one of the few postal outlets in the Market. Harley cleared the box, tossing out the usual flyers and junk mail, and was left with two envelopes; one stuffed with folded papers, the other a thin version of the first.

  “That there’s Garry’s writing. This must be it. Not sure what this one is though, it’s his writing, too.” He waved the thinner one in my face