Canary

by Nathan Aldyne

  “Positively bucolic,” Valentine replied unenthusiastically as his eyes swept across the thick forest surrounding River Pines Lodge. He let go of the steering wheel and turned off the ignition.

  “Your heels are going to rip the fabric,” he called up to her. “I didn’t take vandalism coverage on this thing, remember?”

  Clarisse lowered herself and settled back into the seat. She adjusted her wide-brimmed tan straw hat and picked at the bow of the pink ribbon securing it under her chin. She tossed the trailing ribbon ends over her shoulders, pushed her large octagonal dark glasses up on the bridge of her nose, and looked at Valentine.

  “Val, I’m well aware of your dislike of a landscape minus a view of a distant city skyline, but I do not want to hear it today. I need a day in the country.” She breathed contentedly and then leaned over to catch sight of herself in the rearview mirror. “How do I look?”

  Valentine pressed back against his door to avoid a slashing with the edge of her straw hat. He observed her briefly. She also wore a white blouse with short puffed sleeves and pink cuffed and pleated Forties-style shorts.

  “You look like you’re in drag as Katharine Hepburn.”

  “Is Katharine Hepburn still alive?” a garbled female voice rasped from behind them.

  Valentine and Clarisse both turned as Niobe rose blearily from the backseat where she had been sleeping since they left Boston two hours earlier.

  “How do you feel?” Clarisse asked.

  Niobe sat all the way up and yawned loudly as she rubbed her eyes. When she dropped her hands into her lap, her eyes were still closed. “I still have jet lag. What was that squealing about a minute ago? Did we run over a pig?” She yawned again.

  “We’ve arrived, Niobe. We’re here at River Pines, and it’s lovely.”

  Niobe raised one eyelid. She turned her head slightly and then opened the other eye. “Oh, God, we’re in the woods!” she shrieked. “How did we end up here? Do we have any food? Are we going to starve?”

  Clarisse shifted back around. “This is River Pines Lodge. Remember? Labor Day weekend? Bartenders’ Weekend? All your old friends from around New England and New York? A smart barbecue followed by a smart tubing contest?”

  Niobe threw herself forward and grabbed Valentine’s shoulder. “I said I’d go out for drinks with you two. I didn’t say I wanted to be dragged to the end of the earth for them! I hate trees, especially ones with pine needles and leaves on them! How did this happen to me?”

  “I asked you last night after you got back. You said ‘yes.’ That’s how.”

  “You took advantage of my jet lag. Fresh air makes me nauseous.”

  “Come on, Niobe,” Clarisse persisted. “We’ll be back in Boston by midnight and, for all I care, you can inhale fumes directly from the exhaust pipe of a Greyhound bus. Right now though, all three of us are going to try to have a good time.”

  “Fresh air may make you sick, Niobe,” Valentine said over his shoulder, “but being confined in a small space with a cheerful woman is a real killer.”

  Clarisse opened the glove compartment and took out three plastic-encased name tags reading “SLATE—BOSTON” and gave one to Valentine and another to Niobe.

  Clarisse opened her door and got out of the car. “I’m going to reacquaint myself with Mother Nature for a few hours,” she said, pinning on her own tag.

  “All I want to do is reacquaint myself with a stiff gin and tonic,” Valentine said as he got out of his side.

  “Make that two gins,” Niobe said as she crawled out of the back seat. “Then maybe I can handle all this green hanging around everywhere.”

  The River Pines Lodge, three-storied and made of logs, lay deep in the forests of southern Vermont. From its wide, deep veranda, there was a view to the west of the Green Mountains, and to the south of a stretch of the narrow, turbulent Cold River. The forest hugged the lodge on every side.

  Clarisse proceeded Valentine and Niobe up the steps to the veranda and stopped to look down toward the sun-sparked surface of the river. She lifted her sunglasses to look about and see if she recognized any of the dozen or so men sitting in the chairs facing the small lawn. Several men were already setting up picnic tables for lunch. More cars and VW vans were pulling up. License plates read Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New Hampshire, Maine, Vermont, and New York.

  Niobe came up onto the top step and shaded her eyes as she looked at the new arrivals. “It’s the Roadies,” she announced.

  “Who?” Valentine asked.

  “Bartenders from Rhode Island. I worked at a bar in Rhode Island once, did you know that?”

  “No,” Clarisse said as she looked past Niobe and waved to several men emerging from inside the Lodge. They were bartenders from the Boston Ramrod.

  “Rhode Island is the next closest thing to hell on earth,” Niobe announced loudly—within hearing of the arrivals from that state.

  “Oh?” Valentine asked, “What’s the closest thing to hell on earth?”

  “Waking up in a forest stone sober.”

  Valentine pulled open the screen door. “The bar’s across the room.” He nodded toward the cool interior of the massive lodge living room—one long undivided space filled with comfortable couches, rag rugs, and a ratty moosehead over the fireplace.

  Niobe fled inside. Valentine and Clarisse followed her just over the threshold of the lodge but Clarisse caught Valentine’s wrist. “Val, that woman down at the other end of the room—does she seem familiar to you?”

  “Yes. She looks very much like Elvis Presley after he got on drugs.”

  “Not her. The woman with curly blonde hair and sunglasses in the jeans and cowboy shirt, talking with the two men in the green T-shirts.”

  “No, don’t recognize her. I do know the two numbers she’s talking to, though. The muscular ones with the mustaches are Fred and Mike. Fred’s the one with wavy hair and Mike’s the short hair. They own River Pines.”

  “They don’t have nicknames, I hope—like Frick and Frack or something, do they?”

  “Nope. Why?”

  “After Ruder and Cruder, and The Ice Maiden, I never know what to expec—wait! That’s who the woman is! It’s B.J.!”

  Valentine peered at the blonde woman. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” said Clarisse definitely. “Take a good look. She’s cut her hair, and she’s not wearing her black leather.”

  “So it is B.J.,” Valentine said. “I wonder why she isn’t in her leather?”

  “Maybe she’s going tubing later. It would be difficult floating downriver in a tire if you’re weighted down with whips and chains. I wonder who she came with? Anyway, I’m glad she’s here. One of us can talk with her, and then we’ll see how right or wrong our suspicions are.”

  “I was sort of hoping in all this back-to-nature business you’d forgotten about snooping for a little while.”

  Clarisse fussed with the ribbon of her large hat. “Val, I am perfectly capable of sniffing flowers while looking for a snake in the underbrush.”

  Valentine rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother.”

  “Well, well, the gang’s all here.”

  Clarisse and Valentine were both startled by the deep voice and turned quickly. Press was coming down the staircase that led to the guest rooms on the second and third floors. Charcoal sketching pencils rested behind each of his ears, and he had a medium-sized sketchpad tucked under his arm.

  “And Niobe, too?” Press asked, glancing into the bar. “Who’s minding the store?”

  “I decided to adhere to the true spirit of this holiday,” Valentine said, “and close Slate for the day. A mini-holiday for manager and staff.”

  Press raked platinum hair off his forehead with one hand and barely suppressed a smirk. “Rumor speaketh otherwise…”

  “Rumor usually speaketh with a forked tongue,” Clarisse said darkly. “What’s it saying this time?”

  “Not much, really,” Press admitted.

  A group
of men came through the front door and, as Valentine knew them from past Bartenders’ Weekends, there were brief greetings.

  “Just what is ‘not much’?” Clarisse persisted. “Really?”

  Press pulled one of his charcoal pencils from behind an ear and flitted it through his fingers as he talked. “I just heard that Slate has closed its doors for the last time. That it’s going to reopen as a straight bar called ‘South Endie Trendies.’ That the two of you have lost your financial shirts but that you didn’t care because the whole thing was a tax write-off anyway.”

  “When did you first hear this rumor?” Valentine demanded.

  “Oh, about two and a half seconds after you pulled in the parking lot,” Press replied, smirking again.

  “It’s not true,” Clarisse snapped.

  “Rumors fly when you’re having a good time.” Press shrugged. He pushed his hair back again, nodded curtly to Valentine and Clarisse, and then walked outside to the veranda.

  “I don’t think there’s a rumor at all,” Clarisse said. “I think he just made that up.”

  “So do I,” Valentine agreed. “But it doesn’t matter if he made it up or not, because he’ll spread it. That’s one of the wonderful things about operating a gay business—the moral support you get from the community. Let’s find Niobe and help her make a dent in Fred and Mike’s liquor supply.”

  “Get me something,” said Clarisse. “I don’t want to fight that crowd.”

  Valentine returned a few moments later with a scotch and water for Clarisse. She was standing at one of the large low windows that opened on to the veranda. “I just saw something interesting,” she said.

  “What?”

  “As soon as Press left, B.J. went outside, too, and caught up with him. The two of them walked down to the river together. I didn’t know they knew each other. What if B.J. was at Press’s place the night Jed was killed?”

  “I knew that was what you were going to say. What are you suggesting—that Press and B.J. are sleeping together? I can understand Newt carrying on with her, but let’s face it. Press is a card-carrying homo and wouldn’t change for anything.”

  “No,” said Clarisse. “No sex. But remember, Press is an artist, and B.J. is an archaeologist. She has to have a strong background in art, so that would provide them with some common ground.”

  “Jed never mentioned B.J. being at their apartment.”

  “Maybe Jed didn’t know,” Clarisse argued. “Jed and Press were on the outs before Jed was killed. Press told us he and Jed left notes instead of facing each other.”

  “Go on,” Valentine conceded.

  Clarisse turned away from the windows and leaned against the sill. She removed her dark glasses and said, “Press and Jed both were out at bars the night Jed was killed. Press went to the Loft and didn’t leave there until six in the morning, when the place closes. Maybe B.J. was also at the Loft that night. Press could have invited her back to his apartment. Once they got there, they got more stoned than they already were, and Press passed out. Jed, who was already home, got up later and found B.J. still there. They had words; she overpowered him, strangled him, and then left. Press slept through it all.”

  “There were no signs of a fight in that apartment.”

  “Aha,” Clarisse said, waving an index finger, “I’ve thought of that. She could have crept into Jed’s room and killed him while he slept.”

  “Jed would have put up a struggle,” Valentine insisted, “and there was no sign of one.”

  Clarisse bit her lower lip. “Then she used something to overpower him—something that doesn’t leave marks.”

  “Clarisse,” Valentine said patiently, “think about this: why would B.J. kill Jed when, if your theory’s right, Press was right there? He wouldn’t have put up a struggle if he’d passed out.”

  Clarisse made a pouting frown. She put her glasses back on. “I’ll think about it while I go get another drink.”

  “While you’re gone,” Valentine suggested, “come up with a reason for B.J. to murder a perfect stranger.”

  Chapter Twenty

  AFTER THEY HAD DRINKS, Valentine and Clarisse went off separately. Valentine fell into conversation with old friends from New Haven, and Clarisse decided to explore the lodge itself. With her scotch and water she wandered into the poolroom, the small back bar, and then doubled back through the dining room into the lounging area. She selected a large overstuffed chair facing the hearth and settled well down into it. She propped her feet up on an ottoman. Clarisse stared into the cold fireplace and thoughtfully sipped her drink. Music and snatches of conversation filtered into the room from the bar and through the open windows. She felt pleasantly weary and closed her eyes.

  They flew open again when rapid footfalls crossed the carpet behind her chair. Chair cushions sighed as someone sat down. This was immediately followed by a steady dull tapping of shoe against carpet. The pillows sighed again. Clarisse shifted her eyes to her left as the footfalls rushed across the carpet and there was another groan of upholstery as this restless person resumed nervous foot tapping.

  “If you don’t stop that,” Clarisse said through clenched teeth, “I’m going to epoxy your feet to the floor.”

  “Who’s that?” a male voice exclaimed in surprise.

  Clarisse dragged her feet off the ottoman and turned. Her eyes widened as she looked over the rim of her glasses. “Well, it must be old home week.”

  “What are you doing here?” Father McKimmon asked with apparent shock. He was not wearing his priest garb, but a flowered sport shirt and tan slacks with a pair of brown deck shoes.

  “Good question,” Clarisse replied. “I was just about to ask it.”

  Father McKimmon released a deep breath. He leaned far back, his hands gripping the arms of the chair. He appeared to be forcing himself to relax. The fingers of his right hand tapped out a nervous staccato against the upholstery. “I wasn’t expecting to run into a crowd here today.”

  “What were you expecting to run into?” Clarisse asked the priest.

  Raucous laughter erupted outside the open window at Father McKimmon’s back. He flinched at the sound, then took another deep, steadying breath and addressed Clarisse again. “I was told people came here to relax and not carry on. I heard the place was…” He frowned for want of the right word.

  “Discreet?” Clarisse put in. “Most of the time it probably is, but this is a holiday weekend, you know.”

  Father McKimmon creased his brows. “Holi—? Oh, yes, that’s right, Labor Day. Well, I don’t pay attention to those holidays. If I had known that all these people were going to be here… A friend dropped me off, so I guess I’m stuck here… I…”

  Clarisse wondered why the priest was so distracted. Upset at being seen at a gay resort? That didn’t make sense, because he’d seen Clarisse often enough at Slate. If he’d never admitted that he was gay, he’d at least never denied that he enjoyed the company of gay men.

  Clarisse removed her dark glasses. “Your retreat is somewhere in this area, didn’t you tell me?”

  “Yes,” said McKimmon eagerly. “Yes, it’s about ten miles from here. Very close, in fact. And quite frequently this summer I came over here…” He faded out again.

  “To get away from things,” Clarisse suggested, but she knew that to get sloshed was probably much nearer the mark.

  “Yes,” McKimmon said, “to get away from things.”

  “It was terrible about Newt, wasn’t it?” Clarisse said suddenly.

  “Newt?”

  “Ricky Newton.”

  “Oh, yes, Niobe’s husband. Terrible.”

  Clarisse looked surprised. “I was told he used to be a student of yours.”

  McKimmon pulled up short. “I’ve had so many over the years. But of course I remember him from the bar. Yes, it was dreadful how he ended up.”

  “Were you in town when it happened?” Clarisse asked innocently.

  “I don’t know.”

  Clari
sse raised an eyebrow. “It was July fifth.”

  McKimmon bit at his lower lip. “The middle of the summer was a rough time for me, I’m afraid. I don’t actually have much memory of what was going on at that time.”

  “You must remember what you did on July Fourth. That wasn’t even six weeks ago.”

  “I celebrated,” said McKimmon curtly, and got up out of the chair. “Is Niobe here?”

  “She’s at the bar, I think,” Clarisse said.

  “I have to give her my condolences,” said the priest, and walked out of the room before Clarisse had the opportunity to ask him anything else.

  In the meantime, Valentine had removed his shirt and was deep into a game of volleyball, which had begun as soon as all the bartenders had taken a vote on whether this was to be a competitive or noncompetitive match. “Cutthroat” was ventured as a third option and won. Sean was on Valentine’s team, just ahead of him in rotation. Several times in the course of the game Valentine had to call Sean’s attention back to the game. Sean appeared less interested in winning than in watching Press, who sat sketching the players, his back against the trunk of an oak.

  Once, as the ball sailed over the net to Valentine’s team, Sean leaped suddenly high into the air, twisted his torso to one side, and slammed his fist into the ball. It shot in an arc away from the net and slammed into the oak tree, just inches from Press’s head.

  “Sean,” Valentine said, mystified by the man’s action, “what’s wrong with you?”

  Without missing a beat, Press got to his feet and said aloud, “Sean doesn’t like witnesses; that’s what’s wrong with him.” He ambled away into the thick forest.

  One of the opponents retrieved the ball. The game immediately resumed.

  The volleyball game went on for another twenty minutes, with a victory for the team opposing Valentine. The players dispersed, most returning to the coolness of the barroom and others stripping to their swim trunks and racing toward the shore of Cold River. Valentine remained by the net and wiped sweat from his body with his wadded up T-shirt. Press reemerged from the forest on his way to the river.