I turned my back to her and started for the door, my whole body tingling. Little currents of electricity ran up and down my spine, as though a bullet was about to lodge itself in there. I opened the basement door and started down the narrow stairway. I could see a white-enamel freezer sitting beneath a window. I wondered what in hell she had put in it. I got to the bottom of the stairs and looked at her.
Her eyes were glazed. It was cold in the basement, and now she was shivering. She whispered, “Open the freezer. I want you to see something.”
The freezer wasn’t empty. Lennie Jim was in it. But there was still plenty of room for me.
The noise, when it came, startled us both. There was a rapping on the glass of the basement window. I looked up to see a white face pressed to the pane. Ellen’s pistol went off. A bullet smashed the window into a thousand fragments. My fist struck Ellen’s chin, hard. Her head snapped back as the pistol spoke once more, its bullet nicking the concrete floor before ricocheting to the wall. Ellen’s head struck the floor as she landed on her back, her neck twisted.
Outside the window, Baldy, her neighbour, was gazing at infinity, a red bullet hole in his forehead.
I used my brand-new cellphone to call Bernie.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Twenty-four hours later, Ellen Lemieux was under sedation and police guard in Victoria General’s neurosurgical unit. Baldy was in a stainless-steel drawer at the morgue. Detective Chief Inspector Bulloch—more interested in garnering credit for solving a series of murders than in harassing me—was busy with press conferences. I was at home, thinking about Felicity Exeter and the party at her place that I’d been invited to. Her invitation had said casual. Certainly not jeans, I thought. Not to a party at Felicity’s. I decided on the same clothes I’d worn to the art gallery.
I had a lot to tell Felicity. She would be pleased to learn that her faith in Richard Hendrix had been justified. She’d be interested to hear the complete story of the Nimpkish waif who’d fooled clever lawyers and stupid detectives and come close to inheriting a million-dollar property. I had questions for Felicity, too. It would have taken a lot to keep me home that night.
Fresh snow was coming down as I drove out toward View Royal. My windows kept fogging, so I was hunched forward, wiping condensation from the windshield with paper towels. Beyond the city limits the snow was deeper. A big northbound 18-wheeler passed me, encased in clouds of whirling ice crystals. The monster vehicle, festooned with red and white lights and equipped with multiple headlights, carved a moving sphere of light that I followed for a mile before I took the View Royal off-ramp. Somewhere out there, hidden in the dark, was the north end of Esquimalt Harbour and the Six-Mile pub. Also hidden were the ugly commercial developments marring this once-beautiful country road.
The MG purred along. I slowed it to a crawl and turned onto the narrow side road leading to Felicity Exeter’s farm. The snow was drier here. A few cars squeezed past me, going the opposite way in a convoy. I guessed they were Felicity’s departing guests, leaving early before snow socked them in for the night. The snowflakes were smaller now, hard and dry, blanketing the fields that stretched to the limits of sight. I could see no lights, either ahead or behind. I continued to where a snow-covered finger post pointed left. I slid to a stop and got out of the car for another look. I had reached Felicity Exeter’s property line. I drove across a cattle-stop and found myself in a featureless landscape. Snow obliterated the road. I switched off the headlights and saw house lights glimmering in the near distance. I left the car and trudged across a white expanse to a grove of evergreens where the snow was less deep. Beyond the trees was the grey outline of a guest cottage. I finally reached Felicity’s house. Clumsy with cold, I was fumbling with the bell push when outdoor lights came on. The door opened. Felicity Exeter stood there, barefoot, wearing a black dress that ended six inches above her knees.
“Why Mr. Seaweed,” she said, stepping aside to let me in, “What a lovely surprise.”
≈ ≈ ≈
The fire had burned low. I put my empty wineglass down, reached out from my place on the long sofa and switched off a table lamp. Felicity, stretched out on the sofa with her feet on my lap, murmured contentedly. I stroked one silken foot with my fingertips. Her foot arched as my fingers ran across her heel and ankle and the lower part of her leg. Her voice was low. She said huskily, “Don’t stop what you’re doing, but tell me the rest of it—I’m still not clear how Isaac Schwartz fits in.”
“Isaac found out that the drawings he’d lost to Baineston before the war were being sold at Tuttle’s. By the time Isaac figured out who had consigned them, Sir Hugh had died of old age. Schwartz was denied revenge. I don’t know what he would have done if he’d found Baineston alive, but he could, and did, put pressure on Baineston’s widow. He forced her to hand over what was left of their art collection. Schwartz sold it and gave the money to Joe McNaught. By a fluke, Ellen Lemieux discovered the whole secret and devised the idea of masquerading as Mrs. Tranter. She was angry, though, because Schwartz had beaten her to the money. Ellen went to Moran’s gym with Lennie, and they killed Schwartz. Ellen conned Lofthouse the same way she conned me, by kidnapping and impersonating Mrs. Tranter.”
“Yes, I understand that. But how did she hoodwink Richard?”
“Richard was away in Tofino the whole time Ellen was engineering her scam. Richard never met his fake aunt. Sammy never met Derek Battle’s real client. Ellen was amazingly clever about it all. Not to say lucky. She was also setting Richard up as a patsy. He was the prime suspect when Mrs. Tranter was murdered. The scheme nearly worked. When I discovered that Ellen had nursed Mrs. Micklethwaite, that she had prior knowledge of the Bainestons, and that the real Mrs. Tranter/Baineston was a head taller than the woman who signed the will, things fell into place.”
My hand was gently stroking Felicity’s knee.
She said dreamily, “Tell me about the man who strangled Grace and tried to kill you in the parking lot.”
“Lennie Jim. Lennie was just a poor schmuck Ellen recruited to do her grunt work. She assumed Isaac still possessed valuable art, and when she found out he didn’t, they murdered him. Killing must have excited her, because afterwards she and Lennie had sex in Isaac’s bed.”
Snow had dampened all sound. I thought Felicity had fallen asleep and took my hand away from her leg. Her eyes opened. She said, “I have a canoe. Sometimes I paddle around, setting crab traps. Do you know about those mysteries too? Where crabs are?”
“There are a lot of good crabbing places around here.”
“We could go out together sometime. That is, if you like exploring, and you like crab roasts.”
“I’d like that. I like canoes and picnics.”
After a pause she said suddenly, “Did you find Ellen attractive?”
“She was gorgeous to look at,” I replied.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“All right. I thought Ellen was very attractive. But that was before I spoke to her in the art gallery. Afterwards, I knew that she was a seriously flawed human being. She stole a coat that night, although I couldn’t do anything about it. Not then.”
“She was a monster.”
“She was crazy,” I said. “Baineston was a crook, but he had one redeeming feature. He stole art because he loved beautiful things. Those people planning to loot the whaling shrine were just greedy.”
“Few of us seem to understand that we can never really own anything—except ideas. Memories of people, and poetry, and ideas. Things not made, but earned.”
Her eyes were like little diamond points.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said. “Who’s Fred Porteous?”
She chuckled deep in her throat and stirred slightly, pushing both feet against my thigh. Smiling, she curled upright and brushed my cheek with her lips. She said, “Fred’s my handyman. Keeps an eye on the place when I’m not around. Helps me with the sheep.”
She got up and walked
across the room, pausing for a moment to stand in the doorway of her bedroom and look back at me. Smiling, she turned away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The entrance to the Warrior longhouse is at the gable end, facing the sea. Its doorposts are carved and painted heraldic poles. The door itself is shaped like a raven’s head; a long red plank represents the raven’s tongue. To enter the house, you ascend the tongue. When you reach the top the tongue pivots, like a teeter-totter, and lets you descend into the raven’s belly.
The longhouse was jam-packed with Coast Salish from up and down the coast. It was dark in there, and hot. Two eagle-masked warriors showed Felicity and me to the high tiers normally reserved for women.
Chief Alphonse was standing alone in the centre of the house, near a blazing fire. He had a talking-stick in one hand and a carved wooden rattle in the other, and was magnificent in a woven cedarbark steeple hat and a long red blanket decorated with pearl buttons. On the floor, spaced at intervals around the room, were drummers and singers wearing eagle-feather suits. We’d arrived just in time to see six shamans emerge from the underworld—a hole in the floor. The drummers had been beating a regular rhythm till then. At the shamans’ arrival the drummers increased their tempo. Shamans began to dance and sing the Biter-Me song. Men and women with rattle bracelets around their wrists and ankles came down from the tiers and joined the shamans in a circle dance. Others took up the shamans’ chant. The noise became stupendous when Joey Mack, who weighed 300 pounds or more, leapt onto the floor carrying a bottle of oolichan oil. Joey downed the whole bottle in one draught, whereupon, stupefied, he fell flat on his face. It took several warriors to carry him off.
Chief Alphonse shook his rattle and pounded with his talking-stick to restore order. The audience members returned to their seats. The brief ensuing silence was broken by overhead wailing. Wails became screams when Johnny Grant appeared at a hole in the roof and dropped partway down into the longhouse. I knew what to expect because I’d seen this before, but even so it’s always a shocker.
Johnny’s naked body gleamed with sweat. He was suspended from four ropes—one around each bicep, the others around his ankles. Beside me, Felicity caught her breath and shivered with fright. I put my arms around her and held her close as Johnny was slowly lowered to the ground. After a moment’s rest, Johnny was hoisted aloft again.
Dangling from the roof, Johnny sang his hamatsa song in Coast Salish. Translated, it was:
He went all around the unknown world to find food,
He went all around the unknown world to find human flesh,
He went all around the unknown world to find human heads,
He went all around the unknown world to find corpses.
Johnny’s expression was seraphic. When his song ended, he was lowered to the ground. Chief Alphonse pounded with his talking-stick and shook his rattle again. Johnny lay inert until four big wolf-men with ropes sprang forward. Johnny tried to escape, but the wolf-men held him. Old Mary Cooke made hand medicine over his body. Naked men emerged from the underworld. When Johnny saw them, he became enraged. Gnashing his teeth, howling, he towed his attendants to a male victim, seized an arm and appeared to bite a chunk out of it. A shaman sprang forward to examine the victim’s wound.
Again, Chief Alphonse pounded the floor with his talking-stick. Singing and dancing seductively, half-naked girls enticed Johnny into a subterranean den, and we saw him no more.
≈ ≈ ≈
We had gathered to lay the foundation stone for Joe McNaught’s new mission. Joe was standing on a dais, clutching a microphone and smiling at the small crowd. To my eyes, the pastor looked more like an all-in wrestler than a cleric, but I had to admit that he was an impressive figure. McNaught’s scarlet robe, billowing in a warm summer breeze, emphasized his vast girth. In comparison, Victoria’s mayor and her entourage looked drab and uninteresting. Derek Battle was there, along with a few government dignitaries and representatives of main-line religions. Nimrod fussed about, apparently healthy and certainly energetic after rehab. Detective Chief Inspector Bulloch was there in full uniform. He had been lionized by local media for capturing Ellen Lemieux and was still basking in the radiant glow of good publicity. Bulloch’s name was even being bandied about as Chief Mallory’s possible successor.
McNaught droned on and on. Bernie stood beside me, shaking his head and frowning. Like me, Bernie seldom took McNaught at face value. Cynics, we were always alert for hidden agendas and semi-serious skulduggery.
“Derek Battle and Joe McNaught appear to have settled their differences,” I said.
Bernie nodded. “Battle had no choice. Baineston’s money was supposed to go to charities in accordance with Baineston’s express wishes. The Good Shepherd wasn’t even on the list. But possession, as they say, is nine-tenths of the law. Isaac Schwartz diverted all of his gains to the Good Shepherd. McNaught spent the money as fast as Schwartz handed it over.”
“Speaking of handing things over. How’s Ellen Lemieux doing?” I asked.
“Still out of it. She’ll be detained in a psych hospital during Her Majesty’s pleasure. I hope it’s a long time, because that woman is nuts. She had a long rap sheet up north. Her dad is supposed to have died in a hunting accident. Bella Coola RCMP think Ellen shot him, but they couldn’t gather enough evidence to charge her.”
McNaught was winding up an immodest personal history.
Bernie nudged me and said, “Here comes that big surprise I was telling you about.”
McNaught stretched out a hand. Nimrod put a silver-plated trowel in it. At the same time, a big yellow construction crane lifted a polished-granite foundation stone into the air and swung it into position.
McNaught pointed and said, “This foundation stone is being dedicated to the glory of God and to the eternal memory of our chief benefactor and friend, the late Isaac Schwartz. We are raising a temple to feed the souls and bodies of our beloved congregation.”
The mayor started clapping. Polite people joined in. The crane operator gave his air horn a few jolly toots.
McNaught, enjoying himself, added, “Isaac Schwartz was a good man, maybe a bit unorthodox. A lot of people have the wrong idea about the way that Mr. Schwartz earned his riches, for which I blame the popular press. But I say this: the Lord’s work needed money, and Isaac was the guy who delivered.” He continued in this vein for another 10 minutes, outlining the good works planned for the new mission.
The construction boss—visibly impatient—came forward, tugged McNaught’s sleeve and pointed to his wristwatch. The pastor wanted to argue. The boss put both hands on his hips, leaned forward and jutted out his chin until McNaught backed off. By now the crowd had thinned. Casual spectators, bored and not knowing what was going on or who McNaught was, were drifting away. The pastor waddled to the edge of the dais and down two steps to the spot where the foundation stone lay. The mayor, wearing her gold chain of office, got to her feet, looking flustered, and hastened to McNaught’s side. Then she and McNaught started to argue.
I said, “Let me guess. The mayor expected her name to be on that foundation stone, right?”
“It ought to be. That’s what McNaught promised her,” Bernie said, smirking. “But he put his own name on it instead. It’s a ploy not unknown in politics.”
“A controversial guy, McNaught. Knows how to attract publicity.”
“You said it, pal.” Bernie raised and dropped his shoulders in a gesture of weary resignation. “I’ve had enough of this. What do you say we grab a cup of coffee?”
We turned our backs on the arguing mayor and the beaming preacher and walked away. The sun was hot. Men and women strolling by had the cheerful look of summer vacationers.
Bernie said, “Missing Persons is looking for Mo Dillon.”
“That right?” I said, staring straight ahead.
“His mother reported him missing around the time that Second World War mine nearly killed you.”
“Amazing coincidence.”
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“That’s what I think. How’s Ms. Exeter?”
“Fine. We’re going canoeing later, catch a few crabs. Later on we’ll have a roast and eat ’em on the beach.”
“Before you do that for her, how about doing something for me?” Bernie said, coming to a stop and looking me in the eye.
“Depends,” I said. “What do you want?”
“Tell me how Isaac Schwartz’s body was moved from Mowaht beach to Chief Mishtop’s cabin.”
I shook my head and smiled.
Bernie persisted. “Nobody’s gonna tell me two normal people carried him up there that day. It was tough enough for us to walk in all that mud, so don’t tell me Lennie Jim and Ellen Lemieux did it.”
I told a lie that sounded like truth and said I didn’t know how the body got there. I didn’t know how could I tell Bernie, in all seriousness, that Isaac Schwartz’s body had obviously been moved by something, and that the only suspect I could think of was a creature called Man-Eater-at-the-North-End-of-the-World.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
STANLEY EVANS’ is the author of two previous novels, Outlaw Gold, Snow-Coming Moon as well as the Silas Seaweed series, which includes: Seaweed on the Street, Seaweed on Ice, Seaweed under Water, Seaweed on the Rocks, and Seaweed in the Soup. Stanley and his family live in Victoria, BC.
Introducing the SILAS SEAWEED mystery series
From TouchWood Editions
"Makes great use of West Coast aboriginal mythology and religion . . . The voice of Silas Seaweed . . . is Evans’ own, and it works beautifully."
– The Globe and Mail
"The writing is wonderful native story telling. Characters are richly drawn . . . I enjoyed this so much that I'm looking forward to others in the series."
– Hamilton Spectator
Seaweed on Ice Page 20