Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  “Rose Magnolia Malone, you were the last person seen entering Clarence Snyder’s office.” Peterson lifted his hands in defense. “That’s a fact.”

  On her way out she slammed the door so hard the walls shook.

  35

  Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and that which cannot remain silent. Victor Hugo

  As Maggy rushed through the hallway outside Peterson’s office, Logan and Hunter looked at her with expectant eyes. But she didn’t say a word.

  “Maggy.” They both called after her, but she ignored them and kept going. She didn’t have the energy to deal with them. She needed to sort out the murders.

  Her cheeks flushed with rage, she reached the street. Mei stood outside on the curb beneath her red-dragon umbrella. She handed her a coffee, which was cool to the touch, but that didn’t matter—the warmth of the gesture flooded her heart.

  Mei took one look at her and said, “Got your text. I took a break from work to come down. Let’s walk and you can tell me all about it.”

  As they strolled along, Maggy told her everything that had happened, everything she’d been thinking, everything she’d been worried about. . . right down to her grief and her two-man problem.

  Falling for a button down guy looking for a fast roll in the loft to take his mind off his grief was not something she needed right now. There was no denying the hot physical connection between them.

  Falling for Hunter was a whole different story.

  Mei listened, nodded and murmured “shit” at the appropriate moments, which cheered Maggie considerably. They walked on, towards Granville Island. Mei looked around them furtively, but Maggy didn’t bother. She was tired of looking over her shoulder. If the boogey man was going to get her, then so be it. Bring it on. She’d give him a fight.

  They arrived at Mei’s business, “The Cellar,” an art cooperative on the main drag of Granville Island. Two walls of glass faced the streets, allowing the public to see artists making art. There were printmakers, painters and sketchers working. It was a creative space for artists to work, take classes, and sell some of their stuff. Mei lived upstairs in a tiny suite that held all her belongings. She had launched her business five years ago and while she’d never get rich on such a venture it made her and others happy.

  Mei turned to her at the door. “Ciao,” she said and gave Maggy a quick hug. “Be careful.” She made the text-me gesture with her hand, and then disappeared into her world.

  Maggy remained motionless for a moment, wishing she could follow her.

  On a map, it was a short distance to her place, maybe six hundred meters. Storm clouds brewed on the horizon, but there was plenty of early-morning daylight to help her find her way. Still, her stomach started a flip-flop dance.

  The last time she’d had that feeling, Clarence was murdered. And the time before that, Edgar. And before that, Jimmy. Three times now. Not enjoying this. The feeling of acid eating her insides was not pleasant, and now she knew with certainty that her body was sending her a warning. If only it could be more specific.

  It was like being drawn into the nexus of a storm of grief, murder and pure evil and given no direction. The small hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  Too many things had happened in a few short days. Her imagination was getting the better of her. Her foot caught on the edge of a wooden plank in the walkway, and she stumbled. Some strong woman she was. Couldn’t even walk in pure daylight.

  Cars and delivery trucks crawled through the narrow streets on Granville Island avoiding the crowds of people milling around, shopping or visiting one of the many fine restaurants or the market. In every direction there were people. What could possibly go wrong here? She was basically home. Pulling her coat around herself more tightly, the acid still broiled inside her.

  Then she heard music. Her friend Donny was playing classical guitar in the square. It sounded to her at this moment like music sent from heaven. She told herself she could stop to listen. The notes flowed over and through her feeding her soul and easing her grief.

  Time to take control. Like a flick of a switch she knew what was going to happen. She would make it happen. She’d face the murderer and he would be the one to go down.

  But she needed to see Joe first.

  36

  People haven’t always been there for me but music always has. Taylor Swift

  Maggy closed the door of the Black Cat carefully, but the sound of it echoed in the quiet space. Joe sat at his usual table, alone with a full shot glass in front of him and a three quarters empty bottle of whiskey.

  “Maggy.” His melodic, baritone voice, shaking with grief, ripped her insides apart. He stood up. He always knew when she approached, said he liked the smell of her.

  “Joe.” She walked over to the old man and threw her arms around him. They held each other for a long time, the warmth of their embrace like a shelter in a storm.

  He stepped back a little and reached for her face with his right hand. While he traced her features, she touched the tear running down his face. “I’m so sorry, Joe.”

  “Sit,” he said, and he stumbled into his own chair.

  She reached out to help him. “I’m so sorry.” What else could she say?

  His regal head nodded. “Always figured I’d be first.”

  “You’ll get through this.”

  He knocked back the shot that sat in front of him and banged the empty glass back down on the table. “Not sure I want to.”

  “Joe.” She stopped. How could she even think about lecturing him? “I’m here for you now—always.”

  His mouth twitched as he filled his glass. Reaching across the table he put his shaky hand over hers. “Beautiful, inside and out,” he said, his words slurring slightly.

  “I mean it, Joe. I’m here for you. You can’t give up. What do you always tell me—everything will work out?”

  Joe leaned back and tilted his head as if he searched the sky, his sightless eyes weeping.

  “Joe?”

  “I’d like to kill the bastard who murdered him—slow like. Make him feel some of my pain.”

  This from a pacifist. She squeezed his hand.

  “The asshole has no idea how much light he’s taken out of this world. Clarence had a temper and he cheated at gin, but he always took care of his friends and family. He was a good man. One of the best.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  Joe took a drink coaster with The Black Cat’s logo off the top of the table and flicked it into the air. It hit the floor with a dull thud. “Won’t be the same without him.”

  “Nope.” A nasty, dry taste in her mouth made it hard to say more.

  He poured himself another drink from the bottle.

  “Joe, do you know anything? I mean about the murder.”

  He knocked back the shot. “I found him.”

  She waited.

  “Maggy. Sweet Maggy. You knew, didn’t you?” His glassy-eyed stare faced her. “That’s why you called.”

  “No, I just had a bad feeling, a real bad feeling.”

  He poured another shot. With his unsteady hand the liquor missed the glass and spilled onto the table, where the amber droplets gathered into a puddle. The distinct smell of single-malt whiskey hung in the air.

  “What happened, Joe?”

  He tilted his head. “I heard a noise out back. It’s usually quiet late Sunday night. But I heard a loud bang, and then nothing.”

  She waited.

  “So I headed down stairs to the bar. I called out for Clarence, but he didn’t answer. The place was empty. I checked his office. He’d left a full bottle of beer on his desk and he had music playing. Figured he couldn’t be far. But I was getting this bad feeling. Ya know? In my gut.”

  “Yeah, I know, Joe.” Oh boy, did she know.

  “So I went to check the back door, and it wasn’t closed. It was about six inches ajar. That’s when I remembered that Clarence often took extra food outside late at night for the homel
ess in the alley. So I think, he’s just outside. I figure he’ll know what the noise is about.” Joe shook his head. “But my gut still burned. I shoulda listened to it and called someone.”

  The paleness of his face worried her. Maybe she shouldn’t put him through this. Peterson probably made him go over it a million times already. “Joe?”

  He shook his head. “I’m okay. You gotta know. I walked down the stairs. I could smell his aftershave. I went towards the smell. And I found him. Clarence lay a few yards away from the bottom of the stairs, dead. He had a stake in his chest. Cops say the same kind as the other victims.”

  Nothing could be more horrifying than finding someone you loved murdered. She reached over for his hand and a small smile spread across his face when their hands touched. “I screamed for help. Sheldon, the young homeless guy with the two personalities, came running from the street. He went for help.”

  Maggy squeezed his hand again. “Together, we’ll get through this.”

  “Yeah,” he said, but his voice was not convincing. “If only I had eyes that worked. I might have been able to see who killed him.”

  “Did you smell or hear anything that might help?”

  He shook his tear-stained face. “Regular smells, rotting garbage, urine and cigarette smoke. I could hear a car with a bad muffler going down the road, and a rat munching his dinner. That’s all.”

  “Did Peterson say if he found any clues?”

  “That man likes to listen, not talk. Said he’d do everything he could to find the person who murdered Clarence. He was kind actually. Imagine that, a kind cop.”

  “He’s a good cop.” What else could she say?

  “Can you hear them?” he asked.

  She stopped to listen. The faint sounds of motion came from the alley. “They must still be working the crime scene.”

  “Don’t think I’ll ever step in that alley again.” His voice shook.

  “Me either.” She laughed and then a strangled sound came out of her throat. Not a good time for laughing. “Look, Joe, about tonight.”

  “We’ll be open and I’m counting on you.”

  “No one would blame you if you closed for a couple of days.”

  “We can’t afford to lose the money. Besides, I’m not changing anything because of a murderer. Clarence wouldn’t want that. He’d be seriously pissed-off at me if I closed the Black Cat.”

  She nodded. Then caught herself. His strength inspired her. “I called in sick at the dental office and told Mrs. Randolph I couldn’t walk the dog today. I need a break from my day stuff, but I’ll come back here tonight. We’ll do it for Clarence.”

  “That’s my Maggy. I know I can always count on you.”

  “Maybe you should get some sleep, Joe.”

  “That could take a long time.” He leaned back and took another whisky shot.

  37

  Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness. Maya Angelou

  The door of Maggy’s houseboat stood open. I closed it this morning. I’m sure I did. Shit . . . what now? But a murderer wouldn’t leave the door open. Maggy pushed on the door, took a step back and watched it open wide.

  Hunter lay stretched out her couch reading a Pacific Yachting magazine. He looked up. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “You leave your extra key above the door. It’s not exactly hard to find.” Large dark circles surrounded his eyes. It made her feel good to know that someone else was having a shitty week. He stood, walked over to her and gently touched her face. Then he kissed her softly on the cheek. “I’m worried about you.” Her pulse quickened. The guy was more potent than a hundred percent alcohol.

  “I’m okay,” she said, walking past him. She threw her purse on the kitchen table and sat down. “I’m not in any mood to hear about patrol schedules.”

  “I know,” he said.

  “I have to find the journal Edgar talked about. It has to tell us something.”

  Silence filled the room for a minute, companionable silence; the kind married couples live in. Each lost in their own thoughts and yet together. Married. . . couples? Did she really just think that? Her shoulders relaxed. Being with Hunter felt like sliding into a warm bath, but then he’d look at her and the water would boil.

  “The wind’s good,” he said, walking over to the window.

  That was his way of saying it was time to go sailing. “Uh, Hunter, I don’t think so.”

  “I’m guessing Peterson isn’t letting you look at Edgar’s things. He’ll want to go through them with a certified, Mounty’s, magnifying glass. You’re obviously not doing your day jobs today, so let’s go sailing.” He turned towards her and raised his hands like a lawyer about to rest his case. “It’s the best way, I know of, to clear your head. Get the big picture.”

  “You’re crazy.” Three murders, creepy psychic feelings, and a bad guy on the loose. She couldn’t sail off and play on the ocean. Could she?

  “Not so much,” he said. He gave her one of those killer looks that made her mind stop working.

  A smile spread on her face despite her worries. She did love to sail. It brought her almost as much peace as music. Her wind chime tinkled. It was a good twelve knot wind out there. “Ah hell. Let’s do it. On the way over I’ll fill you in on Joe.”

  ***

  Hunter owned a thirty-seven foot Hunter sailboat, which he kept in perfect condition. It was his pride and joy and handled the local waters with ease. With the main sail set, and the jib half furled, they took a port tack out into English Bay. The drizzle eased, and sunshine peeked through gray clouds. The wind held at twelve knots with a light chop. The occasional white cap broke the horizon. Perfect conditions for a leisurely afternoon sail.

  The fresh, sea breeze in Maggy’s face revived her. There’s wind on land, and wind on sea. Different animals in her book. The sea breeze brings with it the cleansing power of the ocean. It’s like Gaea feeding you strength through her lungs.

  Breathing it in deeply, she let her thoughts run through her mind and out the other side. Nothing seemed so important anymore. Just breathing. The wind and the sea embraced her and all that mattered was being alive. The porousness of life swallowed her whole.

  Hunter understood. He always did. She could tell by the dancing gleam in his Irish blue eyes.

  The boat slid up and down the ocean swells as they entered the bay. Watching the horizon, she smiled at Hunter, a sailors acknowledgment. All was right in their world.

  The scenery took her breath away for the millionth time. She once told Mei, who detested boats, that when you were out on the water you really saw the beauty of the west coast—a place where ocean meets mountain and sky. Its grand scale made her feel small and human; grateful to be a living part of the vast landscape.

  Over two hundred years ago Captain George Vancouver sailed into this bay from the Pacific, and wrote about the lush green forests and majestic mountains that rimmed the land to the north and south. The rugged beauty of the west coast now littered with human communities, still held its grand beauty.

  Five minutes of sailing washed away all her complaints about Vancouver’s weather. The lightening of her heart made her almost giddy. She closed her eyes for a moment and drank in the smell of the sea, the rolling of the ocean beneath the hull, and the thwapping of the sail flapping.

  They passed a large coal freighter flying a flag from Liberia, and another barge filled with sulphur hailing from Panama. Two commercial salmon trawlers came in, and a small yacht with an American flag.

  They were the only sailboat in sight, and yet the now fifteen knot wind was so fine.

  About thirty minutes into the sail, Hunter handed her the helm and went below. He returned with a steaming cup of hot chocolate, the perfect drink for the nippy November day. It smelled of cocoa and Baileys. He took over the wheel and she sat beside him. Everything about the trip had been wonderful.

&n
bsp; She could feel the pregnancy of this moment.

  Hunter stepped closer. His salty, man-smell flooded her senses. His denim blue eyes held hers captive while he ever so gently moved a stray tendril of hair away from her face with his calloused fingertips. The tenderness in his eyes and his touch sent fireworks through her system, short circuiting her brain. This couldn’t happen.

  “Maggy, there’s something I want to talk to you about.” The seriousness of his tone stilled her heart. She’d seen him business-like at the neighbourhood meetings at the Scuttlebutt, but when they were alone, his voice melted to a gentle, almost caressing tone. So this new seriousness sounded like a canon going off. She looked up at the sky and said a silent prayer.

  Hunter took in a deep breath and turned the wheel slightly gaining more wind in the main. The canvas flapped sharply as it caught the extra air. The bow lifted and the hull gained speed. “It’s about us,” he said.

  She knew it. Damn. Now? “Hunter, I’m really messed up right now.”

  “I know. But . . . “

  “But what?” A seagull dove into the water and surfaced with a small fish. Why couldn’t’ she be a sea bird? But then she could be the fish. Odd things you think about at crisis points in your life.

  “I hate seeing you this way.” He took his eyes off the horizon for a moment and met hers. They brimmed with emotion, unspoken feelings that she had sensed, but thought she could ignore. Her life being complicated and all.

  “Shit happens. I’m a big girl. I’ll get through it.” She wiped her running nose with her sleeve. “I appreciate you taking me out. I do feel better out here.” Her voice sounded tinny to her own ear, false, out of character. She kept her eye on the waves, hoping her words would be enough for him.

  “I want to take you in my arms.”

  “Uh,” was all she managed to say, her throat suddenly thick and awkward. Hunter was more to her than a friend, but . . .