A Chill Rain in January
Page 22
“Lookit this, just lookit this,” said Ferguson excitedly, and some spittle flew from his mouth. He gestured at the last pen, which was empty. Alberg looked. The wire had been cut, and the side of the pen pulled back. “I had two skunks in there,” said Ferguson.
Alberg nodded. He saw that the guy was missing a couple of teeth.
“Well what the hell are you gonna do about it?” said Ferguson.
“I’m confused,” said the staff sergeant. “I thought somebody here had gotten a death threat.”
“Me,” said Ferguson, banging his chest. “I got it. I got a death threat. Somebody did this here damage, and stole my skunks, and left me a note that threatens to kill me.”
“Have you got permits for these animals?” said Alberg, watching the monkeys.
“I gotta permit for every flamin’ one of them,” said Ferguson.
Alberg sighed and wiped his forehead. He was being punished, he thought, for trying to avoid those evaluations.
“Where’s the note?” he said.
“Inside,” said Ferguson, heading for the house. “I’m layin’ a charge. Out of my way,” he said to the boy who pushed open the screen door just as Ferguson got to it. “This is the cops. I’m layin’ a charge. Out of my way, boy.” The boy backed away into the house.
Alberg followed Ferguson through the door, across a hallway that stretched the length of the house, and into the kitchen, where the woman he’d seen through the glass wall stood with three children, looking at him curiously. “Hello,” he said, smiling at them. “My name’s Karl Alberg.”
“I’m Annabelle,” said the woman. “This is Rose-Iris. And Camellia.” She glanced at the boy. “And Arnold,” she said, reaching out to rumple his hair.
“Get out there, boy,” said Herman to his son, “and give those critters some water.”
Arnold left, reluctantly.
Annabelle leaned against one of the kitchen counters and crossed her arms. Her face was shiny with sweat—it was no cooler in here than it was outside. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a thick braid. She was wearing a sundress, and no shoes. Her daughters moved close to her; she put an arm around each of them.
“Sit down,” she said to Alberg. “Would you like some iced tea?”
“This ain’t no social call, Annabelle,” said her husband. “The man’s here on police business.”
“I’d love some iced tea,” said Alberg gratefully, pulling out a kitchen chair. He and Ferguson sat down. “Okay. Tell me about it.” He glanced at Annabelle, who had put ice in a tall glass and was pouring tea from a glass pitcher she’d taken from the refrigerator.
“Okay, right,” said Herman. “I went out to water them. Started with the far cage, saw it right away. The cage was broke, and the death threat was stuck in the wire, like,” he said, jabbing at the air. He reached behind him and snatched something from the top of an old buffet that stood against the wall. “Here. Take a look at that.”
The envelope had Herman Ferguson’s name on the front. It had been torn open. Alberg pulled out the sheet of paper inside. The message, like the name on the envelope, had been put together from words cut out of magazines and newspapers. It read: “A RIGHTEOUS MAN REGARDETH THE LIFE OF HIS BEAST; BUT THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED ARE CRUEL.”
Alberg looked dubiously at Ferguson. “You think this is a threat on your life?”
“You’re damn right I do,” said Ferguson, with fervor. “And I know who left it there, too. You take this off and fingerprint it,” he said. “Then you take that old hag’s prints, and they’re gonna match up. You betcha.”
“Herman,” said Annabelle. She set a glass down in front of Alberg. “You can’t go around slandering people like that,” she said. She went back to the counter, held out her arms, looking at Alberg, and drew her daughters near.
“You shut up, there,” said Herman, his face turning red. He was straddling one of the kitchen chairs, clutching its back; the heel of his boot tapped the linoleum rapidly, in a nervous tic. “It’s her, all right. It’s that bloody woman that did it,” he said to Alberg.
Alberg asked Annabelle for a plastic bag, into which he carefully slid the note and its envelope. Herman watched him, mollified. “Who are you talking about?” said Alberg.
“That crazy old hag with all the cats,” said Herman. “She’s the one. She’ll do more, too, if she’s not locked up.”
“Herman,” said Annabelle. She laughed.
“Shut up,” Herman yelled. “I told you. Just shut up.”
“Hey, hey,” said Alberg mildly. “Take it easy.” He lifted his glass and took a long drink. “It’s good,” he said, with a nod to Annabelle. Then he turned to Herman, who was muttering to himself, his heel still tapping the floor. “What’s this woman’s name?”
“I don’t know what the hell her name is,” said Herman. “People like that, what the hell difference is it what their name is? She’s crazy. A crazy person. Pedals around town on that damn bike, talkin’ to herself. It’s a disgrace, to the whole damn town.”
Annabelle rolled her eyes heavenward. She gave her daughters a gentle push. “Go on, you two. You’ve got things to do. Go attend to your chores.”
They left the kitchen and Alberg heard them whispering in the hallway.
“What makes you think she’s got anything to do with this?” he said to Ferguson.
“I seen her lurkin’ around here,” said Herman. “Drivin’ her damn bike on that road out there.”
“Once,” said Annabelle. “You only saw her once, Herman. She was going up to Erna’s, to buy a chicken.”
“Besides,” said Ferguson, ignoring his wife, “she’s an animal freak, and we don’t got another one of those around here, as far as I know. Last winter I seen her attack some poor woman wearing a fur coat.”
“What do you mean, ‘attack’?” said Alberg.
“Screeched and yelled at her, hollered, jumped up and down.” Ferguson shook his head, disgusted. “Crazy. She’s a crazy person. And she’s after me, and I want her arrested.”
Annabelle yawned and stretched her hands high above her head, arching her back. Then she padded across the room and sat down at the table with them. “She probably doesn’t even know about your animals,” she said to Herman.
He stared at her, momentarily speechless. Then he said, “What the hell are you talking about? The whole damn town knows about my animals.” He turned to Alberg. “They’re the talk of the whole town, my animals are. Why, the paper’s gonna send somebody out here to do an article on my mini-zoo.” Suddenly, almost casually, he cuffed Annabelle on the side of the head. “Shut up, you don’t know anything.”
“Hey,” said Alberg, grabbing Herman’s arm.
Annabelle had grown very pale. “It’s all right, Mr. Alberg. I make him mad sometimes.” She pushed back her chair. “I’m going to water my garden.” She left the room, and Alberg heard the screen door creak as she pushed it open.
He let go of Herman Ferguson’s arm.
“She makes me mad,” said Ferguson sullenly. “She knows it, but she goes ahead and does it anyway.”
Alberg stood up.
“Can we get back to business, here?” Ferguson looked up at him plaintively.
“We don’t have a hell of a lot of business to get back to,” said Alberg, and Ferguson got up, too, sputtering protests. Alberg looked down on him for a moment, liking it that he was taller and bigger than the other man. “That’s not a threat you got,” he said, heading for the door.
“The hell it isn’t,” said Ferguson indignantly, trailing after him.
Alberg pushed open the screen door. “Have those animals been inspected?”
“Certainly they’ve damn been inspected!” said Ferguson. “The damn wildlife guy’s been here two, three times.”
Alberg went down the steps, looking around for Ferguson’s wife, but he couldn’t see her. “I’ll check it out,” he said.
Ferguson came through the doorway, the screen thwac
king shut behind him. “Well what the hell are you gonna check out,” he said bitterly, “if I ain’t been threatened?”
Alberg stopped and turned around. “Vandalism. Theft. Intimidation. That sound okay to you?”
Ferguson frowned, uncertain, and rubbed vigorously at his thick black hair.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Alberg. He rounded the corner. “Let me know,” he called out, “if it happens again.” He was pretty sure that it would.
This book is for Mary Eldridge,
and for Marti Wright
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The author wishes to acknowledge the advice and information provided by Staff Sergeant Don Rowat, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and by Elaine Ferbey; any inaccuracies are her own.
This book owes much to the discernment, the patience, and the generosity of John Wright.
There is a Sunshine Coast, and its towns and villages are called by the names used in this book. But all the rest is fiction. The events and the characters are products of the author’s imagination, and geographical and other liberties have been taken in the depiction of the town of Sechelt.
A CHILL RAIN IN JANUARY
A Felony & Mayhem “Foreign” mystery
PUBLISHING HISTORY
First Canadian edition (Macmillan Canada): 1990
First U.S. edition (Viking): 1990
Felony & Mayhem print edition: 2009
Felony & Mayhem digital edition: 2015
Copyright © 1990 by L.R. Wright
All rights reserved
E-book ISBN: 978-1-63194-008-8