Seaweed on Ice

by Stanley Evans

  “There’s an opening tonight at the Moss Street Gallery. Seven o’clock. It’s avant-garde work by the artist known as Tototo.”

  “Tototo?”

  “Yes. I’m one of the sponsors, so I have to make an appearance.”

  “See you there,” I said.

  I was feeling good all over. I’m a sucker for beautiful rich women with dorky English names. I wolfed down my macaroni and cheese and then dozed by the stove for an hour. When I woke up, I washed and shaved and stared into my closet. What was the right thing to wear to an art-show opening? More important, what would increase my chances of getting Felicity Exeter into bed that night? I owned a pair of silk underwear, still in their box. Pink. A gift from a smartass friend. I thought about it. Would they bring me luck, or finish me off? I suspected the latter and left the underwear in their box, although I was sure that Mr. Porteous wore silk underwear all the time.

  I finally chose what I hoped was trendy but casual. I decided to forego a necktie and leave my top shirt button undone—perhaps the top two, so that Felicity would see I wasn’t the kind of smarmy asshole who wears a gold chain around his neck. Okay, so I wasn’t smarmy. But I was an asshole. Why was I going to this shindig anyway? I could go to Moran’s instead. Play cards and have fun with my buddies instead of hanging out with Victoria’s socially superior art clique with a stupid grin on my face, listening to millionaires discussing the Dow Jones and yachts.

  But for all of that, I was feeling good—and good as new, despite the eventful day—when I put on my raincoat and went out to my car.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Half an hour later I found myself in a noisy, crowded room with subdued lighting. I don’t know what I was expecting from the avant-garde, but it wasn’t bare walls. Waiters bearing trays of Chateau Unknown circulated among well-coiffed matrons in black silk and pearls, bearded potters in sweaters and jeans, and an assortment of stockbrokers and developers. A black-tied waiter approached. I was reaching for the last glass of wine on his silver tray when a cowboy reached beneath my arm and beat me to the draw. The gunslinger was an elderly man wearing a Mexican poncho over a green corduroy suit.

  “Learned that trick in the desert,” he said briskly, pouring half the contents of the glass down his throat. “Hydrate whenever possible. On the Western Front one’s very survival often depended upon it.”

  “Of course it did. When does the show start?”

  “It’s already started—this is it.”

  He introduced himself as Norman and we shook hands.

  “Don’t worry, Silas,” he said. “This is one of Felicity’s parties. She doesn’t stint. There’ll be more drinks coming our way presently.”

  “So is this what’s meant by the avant-garde?” I asked. “Odd people gazing at blank spaces?”

  Norman seized my elbow, tugged me through the crowd to one white-painted wall and pointed. There, in the wall’s exact centre, was a large square of blue velvet pierced by a huge, slowly rotating stainless-steel bolt. “Behold,” Norman said. “The artist known as Tototo’s latest masterwork. He calls it Empyrean Night Watch. Feast your eyes on it, my boy. We’re seldom treated to profound performative homiletics in this town. Struggle! Interpret! Don’t let apparent simplicities deceive you.”

  “Norman, I’m underwhelmed,” I said, as he deftly snatched two glasses of wine from a passing tray and handed one to me.

  “It’s superb, but where’s the meaning?” Norman asked. “Does the artist inhabit aesthetic dimensions beyond our ken?”

  I took another look. Several people were gazing at the work in apparent wonderment and awe.

  “It’s a joke,” I said to Norman. “A bolt from the blue.”

  “A hit! A palpable hit!” Norman shouted with delight. “I purchased a similar work once. It was called Wind up your Watch. Still, as somebody once said, meanings are not things inherent in objects; they’re supplied by those interpreting them.”

  “Is Tototo rewarded for producing stuff like this?”

  “God yes. The Tate paid thousands for Tototo’s Soliloquy in Res. It’s stored in the Tate’s permanent collection alongside Piero Manzoni’s canned excrement.”

  “Sorry, Norman, something’s just gone wrong with my hearing. It sounded like you said—”

  “Piero Manzoni, Italian artist. Produced an edition of 30 cans of his personal excrement. Took the art world by storm. Nothing to match it since Marcel Duchamp exhibited a bicycle wheel, a grooming comb and a urinal.”

  “You’re making this up,” I said.

  “No, he isn’t,” said a familiar female voice behind me.

  It was Felicity Exeter. She was wearing gold-coloured shoes and a short sage party dress held up by the thinnest of straps. She smiled at Norman, who kissed her cheek. I followed his lead.

  “You two know each other?”

  “We just met,” Norman said. “But I’m here to tell you that Silas is a man of rare discernment.”

  Felicity was standing close. Smiling into my eyes, she leaned even closer and asked, “What do you think of the show?”

  I was trying to think of something to say when Norman spoke up. “There are a few artists who, through general viciousness or contempt for the public—”

  His critique was interrupted by someone squeezing in between Felicity and me. It was a tall, lean and athletic-looking man wearing an Armani suit and crisp white shirt. He had the chiselled, swarthy good looks of a Bollywood matinee idol, his thick black hair swept back from his forehead. When he looked at me, I saw a long scar running across his left cheek.

  We eyed each other. “I know you,” he said, his mind obviously working to make the connection. I said nothing; I was having trouble believing he was who I thought he was. He’d either undergone a complete head and body transplant or he was Mo Dillon’s clone.

  “Christ,” Dillon finally exclaimed. “It’s Silas Seaweed!”

  I was still trying to reconcile this presentable, tastefully clad yuppie with the overweight, greasy, pimply, total asswipe who had briefly shared my school life.

  “I grew up with this guy!” Dillon said, turning to Felicity.

  “Right. How ya been, Mo?” I said.

  “No time to catch up now, Seaweed,” he said dismissively, without taking his eyes off Felicity. “Honey, we’re needed onstage. It’s presentation time.”

  Felicity gave me a helpless shrug, mouthed the words See you later and was led away.

  “I used to know him a long, long time ago,” I said to Norman.

  “That upstart?” Norman snorted, gazing after the retreating figures. “Well, I hope he’s not a friend of yours, because he’s an asshole through and through. Hear what he said? ‘We’re needed on stage!’ I’m on the gallery’s finance committee. I happen to know that Felicity donated $5,000 toward this show. Dillon talks about how much he’s going to give us, but so far he’s actually given sweet bugger all. Arrives in Victoria out of nowhere, takes credit where none is due. I, for one, have had enough of him.”

  Norman had made no attempt to lower his voice, and a few people were staring. Their eyes followed him as he strode off and disappeared into the crowd.

  Dillon and Felicity had mounted a dais at the end of the room. He tapped the microphone, grinned at the audience and said, “Everybody hear me all right?” A hundred heads turned toward him, and there was a flutter of movement as the crowd repositioned itself for a better view.

  At that moment I spotted Ellen Lemieux, standing near the lobby exit. She was an extraordinarily pretty woman, and I was forcibly struck by how well dressed she was; she stood out even in this crowd of expensively clad women. I cautioned myself to be on my guard as I moved gradually toward her.

  “Hello, Ellen.”

  She looked at me blankly and offered no rejoinder.

  “Remember me? We met at that party a while back,” I lied. “Nice to see you here.”

  If she was surprised by my words, she didn’t show it. She didn’t react at all,
except to turn and walk away.

  I hesitated, then followed. I admired her golden skin, slightly raised cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes from a distance as she collected a black lambswool coat from the cloakroom, swung it across her shoulders and crossed over to the glass exit doors. She glanced outside. Rain dripped from the trees and from the sculptures in the gallery’s courtyard. A lone taxi was just departing. She turned around and saw me watching. “Who are you?” she asked, irritated.

  I wondered digressively if Sammy Lofthouse had lied to me about this woman. She gave me a hostile look, then hurried over to the gallery gift shop, where she switched on a slightly muddled smile and asked the woman behind the counter to call her a taxi.

  Watching her, I had a strong feeling of déjà vu. Curiosity overcame prudence. “I’ve a car outside,” I said. “I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

  “What are you, Haida?” she asked, not looking at me directly.

  “Coast Salish.”

  “I’m Nimpkish, but I guess you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  “Did I?”

  “We’ve met before—you said so yourself,” she hissed. “Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

  She exited through the main doors and stood alone outside, beneath the awning. Moments later she got into a taxi and was whisked away.

  I went over to the cloakroom and collected my raincoat. As I was putting it on, a slightly inebriated woman began to raise her voice. “What do you mean, you can’t find my bloody coat?” she yelled at the attendant. “It’s black, damn you, black!”

  I went back into the gallery. Felicity had finished speaking. Mo Dillon offered her his arm and helped her down from the dais. She glanced toward me briefly as well wishers surrounded her. People were drifting back into the lobby.

  Norman reappeared and asked, “What was that row in the lobby about?”

  “Somebody walked off with a valuable lambswool coat,” I said. Felicity caught my eye again, but this time she shook her head and raised her shoulders helplessly.

  “Popular woman, Felicity, and generous to a fault,” Norman said. “Known her long?”

  “Not long,” I said, as she was borne off by friends to a far corner.

  I wished Norman goodnight and went out. Driving home, I felt as disappointed as a jilted teenager.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was Saturday, and I was enjoying sleeping in until a loud noise, as sharp and clear as a rifle shot, sounded outside. I got up and opened the curtains. A nearby oak, overladen with wet snow, had lost one of its branches. I was starting to get dressed to go out there when Bernie phoned. He’d barely said hello before he started coughing.

  “You should still be in bed,” I told him.

  “I am in bed,” he said breathlessly. “That doesn’t stop people from bugging me.”

  “Hey, you called me,” I reminded him. “Why don’t you call me back tomorrow?”

  “For you, Silas, the way things look, there may not be a tomorrow.”

  “Sounds serious,” I said, shouldering the receiver while I pulled on my jeans.

  “Tell me something. How long since you read the police code?”

  “Years.”

  “Let me refresh your memory. It’s your job to prevent crime, not promote it.”

  Bernie was upset. I kept quiet and listened as I put on heavy socks and a pair of boots.

  “If you want to hang onto your job, listen up,” he went on. “When Derek Battle heard that Mrs. Tranter had been murdered, he started to probate her will. That’s when he discovered that Sammy Lofthouse had prepared a new one. Battle got hold of a copy of the new will and saw your signature on it.”

  “There are too many attorneys in this town, Bernie. I suppose Battle is annoyed because Lofthouse nicked a paying customer.”

  “Annoyed is putting it mildly. Last night, Battle told the chief of police that you’re criminally implicated in a conspiracy to defraud the late Mrs. Tranter’s estate. That’s not all. Jail softened up Richard Hendrix. He panicked when he suddenly realized that he might be facing 25 years in the joint.”

  “I know one thing,” I said. “Hendrix didn’t admit to any killings.”

  “Correct. Hendrix is accusing you of killing Mrs. Tranter. And Lofthouse.”

  I thought that over as Bernie continued. “You told me that Mrs. Tranter changed her will voluntarily. That there was no coercion?”

  “Correct. She was acting of her own independent judgement. She didn’t want Hendrix to inherit anything because she was tired of his laziness and thieving. She wanted Ellen Lemieux to get everything.”

  “You’re still in a jam, buddy,” Bernie muttered.

  “Sammy was a devious little bastard, but in the Tranter matter I think he was on the up-and-up,” I said. “The only strange thing about the will was that she wanted Lemieux’s inheritance to come as a surprise.” Bernie said nothing so I added, “I should know, Bernie, because I was there in Mrs. Tranter’s house when the will was signed. There was no conspiracy. Mrs. Tranter was acting without coercion.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Bernie was thinking aloud now. “One: Ellen Lemieux didn’t know about the will, so she had no motive to kill Mrs. Tranter. Two: Lofthouse couldn’t have killed Mrs. Tranter in the Red Barn because he was miles away, had a cast-iron alibi. Three: Richard Hendrix didn’t kill her because, according to you, he didn’t have time. And there’s no physical evidence Hendrix was ever there. No fingerprints. No DNA.”

  “All right. Now what?”

  “Chief Mallory has always been a big fan of yours, Silas, don’t ask me why. But this has shaken his faith. I expect you’ll be hearing from him directly. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if Mallory suspended you, pal.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I drove straight to my office. The roads were probably slippery, but I was on autopilot and couldn’t remember a single thing about the journey. I went to my computer, found a site for locating out-of-print and second-hand books and typed in Prowdes of Peeling. I got exactly one hit, but one was all I needed, and it was close to home.

  Blackthorne’s Books was on Fort Street. The shop was tiny—a single room crammed with dusty bookshelves reaching to 12-foot ceilings. Under a lamp by the desk, a young man was turning the pages of an old Strand magazine. In one aisle, a bearded local novelist was peering myopically at titles. The bookseller was an elderly woman wearing a summery cotton dress totally inadequate for the chilly premises. When I entered, she glanced up, squinting at me through spectacles with bottle-glass lenses.

  “Hello,” she said cheerily. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “I’m the person who called you earlier, about that English family history.”

  The bookseller climbed out of her chair awkwardly, twisting her body sideways as she eased herself to a standing position. One of her legs was in a metal brace and was thinner than her other leg. It swung stiffly as she reached up to a shelf behind her desk and pulled out a slim volume.

  My eyes shied away from her infirmity. “A bit of luck, your having exactly the book I needed.”

  “Lucky for both of us,” she said. “This was a special order. A customer requested it some years ago. I have a book-finding service and can get most things, given enough time. But this order was difficult to fill because the book was published privately. Only a hundred copies were printed. I finally got it from a dealer in Lancaster. He had two copies of the book, as it happened. For some absurd reason he wouldn’t sell them separately. When the books got here I figured I’d never get rid of the second copy. You can have it for the price I paid. Ten guineas, plus postage.”

  “What’s that in real money?”

  “Let’s say 30 dollars.”

  I gave her my credit card and opened the book while she rang up the sale. The pages that had been ripped out of Isaac Schwartz’s copy were intact in this one and consisted of more photographs. I resisted the temptation to examine the pictures then and there and asked, “Can you tel
l me the name of the customer who ordered the book originally?”

  “I remember him quite well, but I don’t think I can remember his name now,” she said. “It might come back to me. He was an old European gentleman. I used to see him wandering the streets, but I haven’t noticed him lately.”

  “Maybe Isaac Schwartz? He died recently.”

  “That’s him, Isaac Schwartz!” The woman’s lips curved downwards and she sighed. “Dead, you say? Ah, well. It’s God’s will. I wonder what Mr. Schwartz wanted with a book about a family in England? I did ask him, but he wouldn’t say.”

  “It’s a mystery,” I said, as I signed my credit-card slip.

  The young man with the Strand magazine drifted toward us. “How much for this, Mrs. Wilde?”

  The bookseller glanced at it. Smiling indulgently she said, “For you, Charles, it’ll be three dollars.”

  I said goodbye, but Mrs. Wilde was already engrossed in a conversation about Malcolm Muggeridge.

  I saw Lennie Jim as soon as I came out of the bookshop. He was across the street, loitering in a doorway, his hands deep in the pockets of his pea jacket and his dark toque pulled down to his eyebrows. He allowed me a short lead, then followed, staying on his own side of the street. My stride quickened as I turned up Government Street. I caught Lennie’s reflection in a shop window. He was 10 yards behind me now, catching up. I was ready to face him when fate intervened.

  JoAnne, a hooker, suddenly stepped out of a doorway. She was so high she didn’t recognize me in my plain clothes. She grabbed my hand, and this changed whatever plan was in Lennie’s mind. He hurried off, his head down and something swinging from his hand—a bottle, maybe. By the time I had shaken off JoAnne, he had disappeared.

  I hurried to my office, eager to examine the pages that had been missing from Isaac’s copy of the book. The first showed a photograph of four young men. The two in the foreground wore striped jackets and white pants, open-necked shirts and the funny little caps worn by English schoolboys back then. In the rear were two men about the same age, wearing tweedy working-class suits, cloth caps and collarless shirts. The caption read: BEST OF FRIENDS! Peter Prowde and Hugh Baineston, down from college. August Bank Holiday, 1933. Rear: James Micklethwaite and Eric Tranter.