Seaweed on Ice

by Stanley Evans

  “You wouldn’t remember the name of the family that Mickle-thwaite worked for in the Old Country?”

  “It happens that I do,” said the old man, “The Prowdes. Jim used to say that they were Prowde by name and proud by nature.”

  The air seemed suddenly colder. I thanked Mr. Purdy for his help. We shook hands and I took my leave.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Driving away from Adanac Street, I felt the guilt that comes from neglecting one’s ordinary duties. As everybody knows, a uniformed cop’s ordinary duty is to pound a beat—make his presence known to as many rascals as possible. So I drove back downtown, parked on Fisgard Street and set out on foot. During the next hour I persuaded six University of Victoria students protesting Canada’s role in Afghanistan to rethink their idea of building a tent city on Pandora Street. I also called Buster’s Towing on my cellphone and had them haul away a ’73 Mazda abandoned near St. John the Divine Church.

  The next thing I knew, it was raining hard. I happened to be outside the Good Shepherd Mission, so I went inside. This time I found Joe McNaught in his office, bent over his desk, holding a pen in his fat fist as he worked on the mission’s accounts. The black-robed pastor rocked back in his steel chair and gave me a strained smile.

  “Where’s Nimrod?” I asked without ceremony,

  McNaught scratched his bald head with the pen. “I can’t say, brother. He comes and he goes.”

  “Nimrod lives here. He’s supposed to be your strong right arm in the kitchen.”

  “He’s my strong right arm in the kitchen when he’s not drunk or face down in a gutter.”

  “The last I heard, Nimrod had sworn off the booze.”

  “Well, see, Nimrod has this problem,” McNaught replied, sounding for all the world like a patient schoolmaster addressing a simpleton. “There’s some kind of bomb inside his head. Every once in a while the bomb explodes and Nimrod’s brains go down the toilet. That’s when he runs down to the nearest liquor store, picks up a jug and finds himself a nice quiet back alley.”

  McNaught’s right wrist bent upward and he stared at the silver rings on his fat fingers. I waited.

  “The last time I saw Nimrod was several days ago,” McNaught finally said. “We had some business in Chemainus. When we got back to Victoria, the car needed gas and I made the mistake of giving him cash to pay for it. If you need him real bad, I’ll put the word out, but I have to tell you this: Nimrod won’t be much use to anybody until he’s run his devil into the ground again.”

  “How long do his binges usually last?”

  “Depends. He’s getting old, running out of steam. In his heyday they lasted for months, years.” McNaught admired the rings on his other hand. He gave me a sly look and said, “The word on the street is you had your wrist slapped by Bulloch.”

  “I’ll survive. What bothers me are guys like you, who think my brains are in the toilet, like Nimrod’s.”

  “Well, I always knew you were sensitive,” McNaught said, smirking. “Beats me how you ever became a cop in the first place. You should have been a social worker.”

  “Or a pastor in a downtown mission.”

  McNaught shook his head. “You have the wrong idea, Silas. Being a pastor down here, you’ve got to be tougher than the competition. Tougher than hell.”

  “All right, tough guy,” I said, showing him my teeth. “Tell me who torched the Jamieson Foundry.”

  McNaught’s grin faded, but he recovered quickly. “That’s what I like,” he said, easing a finger into his ecclesiastical collar. “Teasers. Guys who talk in riddles. Think they can blow smoke in my eyes.”

  “That’s good, coming from you. Your whole act is smoke and mirrors.”

  “Away you go, Silas,” said McNaught, trying to brazen it out and waving me toward the door. “Just run along. You can’t stampede me.”

  But McNaught was anxious, I could tell. In a lengthening silence I became aware of the sweet smell of incense that overlaid the sour mission odours of cooking oil, unwashed bodies and Lysol. I heard laughter in the corridor outside, and a banging door.

  “Tell you what I think,” I said sharply. “I think you burned it down.”

  “The Jamieson Foundry? Me? Why would I do a thing like that?”

  “Oh, maybe to save yourself a little money when you come to build on the property.”

  There was a brief silence, then McNaught said, “Keep talking.”

  “Well I’m glad you’re not arguing with me, Joe, because I know that you own the Jamieson property. What I don’t know is how you raised enough money to buy it.”

  “You should know, because I already told you. I got the money from Isaac Schwartz, remember?”

  “You told me Isaac left $50,000. With Victoria real-estate prices the way they are, there’s no way you could have swung the deal with that.”

  McNaught’s black eyes were unreadable. I thought he’d clammed up, but he surprised me. “You’ve done okay, Silas. I thought Isaac and me did a pretty good job of covering it up. How’d you find out?”

  I ignored his question and said instead, “I know, among other things, that you’ve been dealing with the Regal Trust Company. What I’m thinking is, maybe you’re planning a big new church on the old Jamieson property.”

  “Okay, fine. I won’t deny it—it’ll be public knowledge before long anyway. You’re right. This church is too small; we need to expand.” McNaught made a fan with his hand, his fingers splayed in a farewell wave. “Now, off you go, Silas,” he said in a quieter voice. “I’m busy, and you’re making me nervous.”

  “What’s the matter, Joe? Conscience bothering you?”

  My last remark struck a nerve. The pastor lumbered to his feet, helping himself up by pushing against the chair’s arm rests. Standing, he thrust his hands into the folds of his robe and gazed at me for a long minute. Shaking his head, he walked over to the window and stared out at a single ray of sunlight slanting through a gap in the clouds. It was the kind of sky favoured by painters for religious compositions involving heavenly messengers. If McNaught had any guiding angels up there, they were invisible to me. He was on his own.

  “Now that we’re being so upfront about everything, what did you want to see Nimrod about?” McNaught finally said.

  “Nimrod was the only man who spent any time talking with Isaac Schwartz. And I don’t think Nimrod knew that Isaac was rich.”

  “So what?”

  “Funny thing, secrets. There are some secrets people take to their graves. Other secrets, they just won’t stay put—they’re busting to be told.”

  McNaught’s expression was blank. He had recovered his composure and was the tough no-nonsense street pastor again. I needed to shock him. “After Isaac’s service, Nimrod was sure that Isaac died broke. It got me thinking. I wondered why Isaac never told Nimrod he had money, but he told you.”

  I gave McNaught a chance to speak, but he kept quiet. I took another gamble and said forcefully, “Isaac’s money was earned in a shameful way. My guess is, he had to tell somebody. So he told you instead of Nimrod.”

  McNaught said innocently, “I was his pastor—he could trust me. Isaac told me he was getting back something of his own. An investment that paid off big.”

  “Did he tell you that it was an investment in blood money?”

  That was too much for McNaught. His shoulders slumped. Speaking in a softer voice he said, “I’m no Judas. Isaac’s money wasn’t for me. It was for my flock.”

  McNaught lifted his arms, then let them fall again to his sides. “For years, Isaac Schwartz donated to the Good Shepherd Mission,” he said. “He’d come in with a cheque. Sometimes for $10,000, sometimes for $50,000. It was money he got from selling art.” McNaught caught my eye and added, “God gives and God takes away. He takes life. Sometime he takes hope, and only He knows why. Mine are little people, Silas; they’ve got nobody but me. I give them food and bring them to Jesus. They’ve been robbed of everything. They’ve lost their jobs, the
ir families, their self-respect. All they’ve got is me.”

  “Spare me the warmed-over guff,” I said. “If all they’ve got is you, they haven’t got much.”

  Those words didn’t faze McNaught. He had withdrawn into his head. He wasn’t listening to anything except his own thoughts. He outlined an imaginary building with his hands and said, “I have this dream. I want to build a big new church—a combination church and clinic for street people. A place where addicts and people with AIDS can get treatment. We’ll have beds for the homeless. We’ll have classrooms. We’ll have a Native friendship centre. Teach your people fresh off reserves how to survive the city.

  “It hardly seems fair, sometimes, those fat cats in their fancy offices out there. Those businessmen, stockbrokers, rich property developers—how come they’ve got so much and my people have to sleep under bridges?” He held his arms out now in a helpless gesture.

  “If you do end up building a new church, you’d better build it with fireproof materials,” I said. “Install plenty of sprinklers, because you might have one helluva time buying fire insurance.”

  Talking about his dreams had strengthened McNaught. “Ah, go on,” he said. “You’ve got what you came for, Silas. Now quit hassling me.”

  His normal composure was back. It would be a waste of time to grill him further. His guard was up now—he was boxing clever.

  I was at the door before I asked, “Remember the old lady who sat at the back of the chapel when you did Isaac’s service? The woman who left early?”

  “Yeah, you mentioned her before. Lady in a fur coat?”

  “You said you’d never seen her before. Seen her since?”

  The preacher shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I’ll keep my eyes peeled. She was probably some old widow who just likes funerals.”

  I went outside and stood on the front steps. Panhandlers, runaways and just plain crazies, attracted to the mission like iron filings to a magnet, stamped their feet in the cold. Across the street, a posse of teenaged Chinese girls sashayed by, freezing in their low-slung pants and navel-revealing short jackets.

  I called Bernie on my cellphone, but the police dispatcher told me he had booked off sick. I called him at home. His wife answered.

  “Hello, Marie. Can I talk to Bernie? It’s important.”

  “Aw Silas, give the guy a break. He’s laid up in bed, weak as a kitten, coughing and sneezing.”

  “Not pneumonia?”

  “The doctor says it’s just a bad chest cold. He’s run down from working too many hours. He never gets enough sleep.”

  “Well, tell him I called and give him lots of TLC,” I was saying when Bernie came on the line.

  “What’s up?” he croaked.

  “Nothing, go back to bed.”

  “I’m in bed. Is this to do with Isaac Schwartz?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, come on over. Wear a face mask in case I sneeze in your face.”

  Marie was protesting strenuously, but I pretended not to hear and hung up.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Marie was waiting for me at the door. Bernie must have lectured her, because instead of arguing she kissed my cheek and led me straight upstairs to the master bedroom. Bernie was propped up against the pillows, looking feverish. His red eyes were streaming, and he had Kleenex in one hand and a glass of hot orange juice in the other.

  “Got plenty of rum in that glass, Bernie?”

  “Sure. You want one?” Bernie sniffled, pointing to a vacuum flask on the bedside table. “Help yourself.”

  It was like stealing from orphans, but I poured myself a glass anyway and sat down in a Morris chair with a leather cushion. Bernie’s eyes seemed to have sunk deeper in his head. I thought his hair looked thinner too, but it must have been my imagination—it was only two days since I’d last seen him.

  “I just spoke with Joe McNaught,” I said. “I’m pretty sure he torched the Jamieson Foundry. If he didn’t do it himself, someone acting for him likely did.”

  Bernie was overtaken by a coughing fit. Rocket-propelled influenza droplets filled the air and left him breathless. I got up to leave, but he waved me back to my seat. “Okay,” I said. “Five minutes, then I’m outta here. Let me do all the talking; you just take it easy.”

  He nodded in agreement and I continued. “Isaac Schwartz, to all appearances a penniless Holocaust survivor, is murdered. Except he wasn’t so penniless—before he died, he gave a million dollars or more to the Good Shepherd Mission. McNaught told me that Isaac got this money from selling art. Now, a few facts. Before the war, back in the late ’30s, Isaac was swindled out of some Old Master drawings by a wealthy Englishman, a man called Baineston. Isaac and his family ended up in German concentration camps.

  “Baineston was a bigwig. His full name was Sir Hugh Baineston, and his wife was Lady Dorothy Baineston. The Bainestons went missing in Europe during the war and were assumed dead. But maybe they’re not dead, because somebody calling herself Dorothy Baineston has been consigning valuable Old Master drawings to auctioneers.”

  Bernie’s cough began again, but this time he kept a Kleenex to his mouth. I waited until he stopped.

  “I think Isaac found out about those consignments and discovered that the drawings had originally belonged to him. He did some ferreting, and that’s what got him killed.”

  Bernie was staring at the ceiling. He said thoughtfully, “Okay, but the important question is, how did Isaac end up with the money?”

  “I don’t know yet. Anything I say would be guessing.”

  “Go see Savage and Bulloch,” Bernie advised. “Now. Lay your cards on the table.”

  “Waste of time. Savage will tell me that Isaac’s murder is Bulloch’s business. Bulloch will tell me it’s none of my fucking business. This is a complex case, I prefer we wait till you can handle it personally.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I was still thinking about Isaac Schwartz when I got back to the reserve and picked up my mail. My cabin was freezing inside—I used most of the mail to light my stove. The only genuine piece of correspondence had arrived in a heavily embossed envelope; it was an invitation to a Christmas party at Felicity Exeter’s house. Casual. RSVP.

  Should I phone? What I really wanted was to find some quiet place where I could hold Felicity’s hands while gazing deeply into her sexy green eyes. Enchant her with Coast Salish legends, charm the pants off her. The holding hands part would be nice, too … Reality intervened. A woman like her, rich and beautiful? She had her pick of men. Who was I kidding?

  On the other hand, many powerful women have trouble getting suitable dates. Maureen Dowd—The Times’ ace butt-kicker—had complained about that very thing on Larry King Live. I derailed that train of thought too, switched back to the real world and decided to just phone. This time my cellphone worked, and so did Felicity’s line. A hoarse male voice answered, “Exeter residence. Porteous speaking.”

  “My name is Silas Seaweed. May I speak to Ms. Exeter?”

  “I am sorry, sir. Ms. Exeter is not at home. Do you wish to leave a message?” Porteous’ voice was businesslike, curt.

  “Will you tell her that I received her invitation? I’m phoning to accept.”

  Porteous coughed. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Seaweed. Silas Seaweed.”

  “Fine, I’ll tell her.”

  I replaced the receiver thoughtfully. Who the hell was Porteous? How come the hoarse voice? Smoked too many expensive Havanas? Not very smart—couldn’t remember my name for two seconds. Porteous was probably Felicity’s rich lover. With their kind of money, you didn’t need brains—what you needed were clever accountants. Well, it had been a nice dream.

  I looked out my window. Winter’s storms were temporarily abated; in the fading afternoon daylight, the sea outside my house was still. White swans cruised majestically near the wharf, contrasting nicely with a flock of high-flying crows, flapping to their night roosts on Victoria’s offshore islands. A m
ile beyond the Fisgard Lighthouse, the horizon was barely visible where black sea joined blacker sky.

  I was opening a box of Kraft Dinner when my phone rang. It was Felicity.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Mr. Seaweed. I did call your office, but all I got was the answering machine.”

  “Funny you should call. I just telephoned you to accept your invitation. Mr. Porteous answered.”

  “Lovely, I’m pleased,” she said. “Look, sorry if this is a bit abrupt, but I’m in a quandary. I need advice and don’t know who to ask.”

  “Fire away.”

  “It’s a bit complicated, actually. I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “Maybe we could meet, talk face to face. May I ask where you’re calling from?”

  “The Laurel Point Inn.”

  “I can be there in a few minutes. If you haven’t eaten, maybe we can have a bowl of chili or something at Lou’s.”

  “Chili at Lou’s sounds perfectly wonderful, but I’m afraid I can’t. Not tonight.”

  “Take pity on me, Ms. Exeter. I was just about to make macaroni and cheese. Sharing dinner would be a Christian act, your good deed for the day.”

  She laughed, then added in a serious voice, “Look. Richard Hendrix phoned me from the Campbell River jail. He says he’s being framed, set up. He insists he knows nothing about any murders, and I believe him.”

  “Did he explain how he and Lofthouse both wound up in Campbell River?”

  “He can’t explain it, didn’t even try. Richard thinks whoever killed Lofthouse dumped his body up there to bolster the circumstantial case against him.”

  “Against whom?”

  “Against Richard.”

  “That’s a bit far-fetched.”

  She didn’t say anything for a minute, and I wondered if I’d offended her. She suddenly asked, “Are you interested in art?”

  “Oddly enough, I am, especially Old Master drawings.”