“That might be a problem,” I said. I told him what the cop had told me, about Des being missing. Laurence thought for a bit.
“Dickie is dead,” he said. “He must be.”
“Not necessarily,” I said. “Laurence. You said that Dickie’s been seeing Rose around. He must think she’s alive. But presumably it was easy enough to identify her body when she died, so it’s not like there was some mistake at the morgue or something. The woman is dead.” God, what I wouldn’t have given for a cigarette. Not even crack. Just a simple cigarette. But they were downstairs.
“Yes,” he said.
“Dead people don’t wander around,” I said. “Dickie is not well.”
“I know that’s what you’ve been thinking,” he said. “It’s been written all over your face.” Oh. So much for my poker face. “But you’re wrong. I don’t know how else to say it.” He looked like he was trying not to wring his hands.
“Did she have any sisters? Twins? Ha?”
Laurence shook his head. “Her father came to the funeral. No siblings, at least none there, and none that I know of. Her mother died in childbirth.”
“And her father is where?” I felt guilty that I didn’t know this; he’d probably told me.
“New Hampshire, I think. Rhode Island? Somewhere like that. Bad health. I’m not even sure if he’s still alive.”
He put his hand up. “Cars in the drive,” he said. I heard it right after he said it, but we were the other side of the building, facing the lake.
Moments later, there was a racket at the back door, and noise at the front door as well.
“Danny?” I heard a female voice calling out. Debbie. Constable MacLean.
“The cavalry is here,” I said. I exhaled. We went downstairs.
* * *
It was chaos, but under the circumstances, very welcome chaos. There were two cops inside and one outside. One of them was putting on some kind of protective gear; to handle the box, I presumed. Laurence and I had been relegated to the couch in the living room and told not to move. And despite the sunny morning, the cops kept the curtains shut.
These were fresh faces. I wondered how many Mounties worked around here, of it these were reinforcements.
“Has anyone seen Mary?” I asked the room. Constable MacLean came over and perched on the couch next to me.
“I just talked to her,” she said, “and to Geoffrey, her husband. She’s taken to her bed, pretty much. Colin is her sister’s boy, and her sister died years ago. They were very close.”
I paused to let that sink in. “But Des was there yesterday,” I said. I thought of the squad car sat outside when Laurence and I passed in the evening, and the yelling. “What time did he leave?”
“Late afternoon, according to Geoffrey. He thinks about five.”
I looked at Laurence, and spoke. “We passed there last night on our way here. Not sure the time. Maybe ten? And there was a squad car there, and we heard men’s voices yelling.”
“Yes,” she said. She looked like she hadn’t slept since yesterday. “I heard. Geoffrey and one of the other sergeants. Geoffrey was upset about Colin, about how we could have let this happen. You know. Et cetera.”
“But Mary’s okay?” Laurence looked at her. I wanted to put him in the car and drive away. I wanted to feel safe for five minutes.
“She is. And she isn’t. You know. But she’s safe, if that’s what you mean.”
“As much as anybody else is,” I said. MacLean sort of smiled at me. It must have been weird for her to have all these people in her private space. No doubt she was regretting giving me those keys about now.
“Everything locked up safe?” she said quietly to me.
“Yes, clean, safe, all good.”
She smiled at me for real. “Those are my clothes.”
I felt myself go red. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t go back in for my things.” I didn’t tell her I was wearing one of her bikinis for underwear. Hospitality only goes so far.
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “They look better on you.” More blushing. No way was I going to look at my brother, whose eyebrows were probably going a mile a minute. I didn’t even feel like she was flirting with me, but after my experience with Miller, and my general social awkwardness without drugs or violence, I felt silly. “If you like, I can pick up your things from Rose’s. Or I can bring you other things to wear.” Now, this time I did feel like she was flirting, because of the way she said it. I opened my mouth to say something that would undoubtedly have been stupid, when there was a small commotion in the kitchen. MacLean excused herself and told us to stay put.
“So. How’s your holiday so far?” I said to Laurence.
“Beautiful scenery,” he said. “Of course, it’s a bit quiet around here, after the hectic pace in New York.” I nodded. We sat in silence.
There was a hushed conversation going on in the kitchen and I, for one, wanted to hear it. But of course couldn’t, due to my stupid bad ear. After a few minutes, two of the officers came in, the two I didn’t recognize.
“Mr. Cleary,” one of them said, his hands behind his back, “I understand that you and Dickie Doyle are good friends.”
“Since university,” Laurence said. He’d been asked this a million times already, but he sounded patient. Certainly more than I would be.
The cop nodded. “I’d like to ask you to look at something for us, and I’ll be honest: It’s going to be upsetting.”
Laurence just nodded. The cop signalled to one of the other ones, who disappeared and came back in with the box. The lid was on.
“The box was addressed to you, but there was no note,” the cop continued. “I’m going to show you the contents of this box, and I’d like you to identify it for me if you can.”
They put the box on the coffee table in front of us, instructing us not to touch it. One of them took the lid off.
Inside the box was a man’s ring finger. With a ring on it. And a lot of blood. I knew what that meant.
“He’s alive,” I said. “That was taken off him when he was alive.” I looked at my brother, who had no expression on his face. He was bent over, looking closely at the finger without touching it.
“That’s the ring,” he said. “That’s Dickie’s ring. I was his best man. I carried it around for him for two days.” He leaned back on the couch. “How does that mean he’s alive?”
“If it had been taken after he was dead, it would be cleaner, less bloody,” I said.
“That’s partially true,” one of the cops said. “We’ll be analyzing it, obviously, but we just wanted your initial identification.”
“He can’t have done this,” Laurence said. “Dickie Doyle could not have done this.” There was a second of silence. Seemed not everyone in the room agreed.
“If it is Dickie Doyle’s – well, it is possible for someone to cut off their own finger,” one of the men said, gently. “Nothing about this case has been normal. Someone who could do what happened to that girl…” he started to say, but someone shushed him.
“No,” Laurence said. “I mean, he literally couldn’t have done this.” He pointed to the box. “Dickie is left-handed. Very left-handed; and he has severe nerve damage in his right hand since surgery after a rugby match at Bennington.” I didn’t know this. I wondered if Laurence was making it up to get the police to believe in Dickie’s innocence. But it would be easy to disprove; anyone close enough to him – Mary – would know if this was true. “Dickie could barely hold a fork in his right hand, let alone manage to cut off his own finger with it.” I could tell that Laurence didn’t know whether to be happy or even more upset.
Someone was holding Dickie Doyle and cutting pieces off him. And wanted Laurence to know it.
“We are leaving today,” I said, to the room at large. “If you people need formal statements, we’ll come in now and give them. And then we’re going back to Toronto. We can answer any further questions from there.”
“That’
s a very good idea,” one of the cops said.
“You leave today,” Laurence said to me. He looked at the cop who’d shown him the box. “I’m searching for Dickie. I won’t get in anyone’s way. And if you have a problem with that, I will give you my lawyer’s number.”
I could try to find a way to drug him and get him on a plane, I supposed, but he would just come back.
“I guess we’re staying,” I said. “Hey. Does the RCMP have any kind of deputization program? You know, so we can carry guns? We’re both proficient.” I smiled at the room. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Nobody seemed to find me very funny, but a couple of the younger cops almost seemed to think it wasn’t a bad idea – Colin was dead and Des was missing. Warm bodies, people you know are innocent, who know their way around a gun? Why not? One of them even took the time to explain the citizen’s arrest laws in Canada.
Laurence eventually went to take a shower while MacLean took me upstairs to look for spare clothes he could put on. Her dad was really tall, she said. They’d find something, but not what “somebody like your brother” would normally wear. I wasn’t sure if she meant gay or a TV exec from New York City. Seeing as I was pretty sure Debbie MacLean was gay, I decided she meant New York.
“Don’t worry,” I said, following her up the stairs. “He’ll just be grateful if the bottom third of his legs are covered.” While she went into another room to look for clothes, I made the bed – her bed – and sat on it.
There had to be at least two people doing all this. At least. And if Dickie wasn’t involved, then it was somebody who hated him and what he had been trying to do at Rose’s very much. Des had said Mary was going over old files to tell one of the investigators what she could remember about previous residents.
If what Laurence said was true – if Dickie really couldn’t have cut off his own finger – it was always possible that he had a partner in crime do it for him.
Or maybe it wasn’t his finger at all. It could be Des Murphy’s finger, with Dickie’s ring on it.
The first thing I wanted to do was go see Mary. Alone. If her husband Geoffrey had a problem with the RCMP, then I didn’t want to be showing up with one. Or two, or ten. Just little old me, and a homemade banana bread. But since that didn’t seem possible, I’d take one or two of the bottles Laurence and I had picked up at the liquor store. Mary was a woman’s woman – she and I had bonded in my first week there, and while we weren’t best friends or anything, I knew she’d be more comfortable talking to me alone. Without Laurence. She adored him, but with him she was her public self. I needed her to talk to me honestly.
She knew about my past, or some of it. About my twin sister. She knew that I was aware of how important family was.
Laurence came into my room a few minutes later, wearing sweatpants that made him look like Pee-wee Herman. Constable MacLean was behind him, trying not to laugh.
“Okay, so maybe Dad isn’t quite your height,” she said.
“My dear Constable MacLean,” Laurence started to say, but Debbie stopped him.
“You’re my guest. Debbie, please.”
“Debbie. We are taking such advantage of your hospitality and kindness. But I’m afraid I’m going to ask you for one more favor.” He looked down at himself. “Do you think you could take us back to Rose’s? Just a quick stop in to get our things. I’m not leaving the area until we find Dickie Doyle,” he said, “but of course as soon as hotels free up we’ll move to one.”
“Excellent idea,” I said. “But, Laurence, I really don’t want to go back there. Can you pick my things up for me? I didn’t get enough sleep, and I’m sure you’ll be leaving someone or other around here?” I looked at Debbie. There was a lot in that look. She knew I wanted to get back to the gun and possibly to the woods. I wanted to tell her not to worry, that I was just planning on a quick visit to Mary’s. “And you can bring back a few groceries maybe?”
Half an hour later, Laurence and Debbie, along with a couple of the other police, pulled out of the drive.
I went to the bathroom and cleaned up a bit – turns out I had mud on my face the whole time, from my dive into the woods when I heard the pickup – and grabbed one of Debbie’s dad’s t-shirts, swapped it with the Acadia sweatshirt, which was covered in dirt, leaves, and a couple of things that crawled. With Debbie’s bedroom door closed and my security chair in place, I quickly took the Glock back out and put it into my fanny pack, and put the whole thing into my nylon tote. I sailed downstairs, smiled at one of the cops, and grabbed a bottle of vodka from our shop the night before. I took a bottle of water from the fridge, and let myself out the back door. No one questioned me. I wasn’t a prisoner. I had the impression that the police there were just waiting for something to happen, maybe for crime scene techs to show up; I wasn’t their concern.
This made me happy. Not much had made me happy in the last couple of days.
I started the Mustang, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and managed to get on the road without popping the clutch once.
I took it as a good omen.
Boy, was I wrong.
TWENTY-ONE
The day was the warmest we’d had so far, and I drove with the windows down. I still had the carton of cigarettes in my tote bag, and there was a bottle of vodka in the passenger seat. I figured that was good enough for a visit, seeing as how I couldn’t get my hands on any homemade food.
I would make Mary something to eat at her place, and for myself too. Then after visiting with her – presuming, of course, that she would see me – maybe I would go for a drive. Peace. Nobody shooting at me, nobody leaving body parts for me, like a cat leaving dead mice as offerings for its owners.
I hadn’t driven this road in daylight. Once you left the treed area, at the top of the hill you could see so much of the Valley. It was breathtaking. Green fields and the Bay of Fundy way in the distance. You could even see all the way to Cape Blomidon from here.
Laurence would be safe today. Every instinct I had told me that. And despite everything, for a few minutes I was able to put Sarah out of my head, and Evan, and Colin. Maybe after visiting Mary and meeting her husband, I would even drive onto the campus. Maybe I could even score a little coke. Not crack, and I wouldn’t cook it. Just a few bumps of coke to get my synapses firing. I had been cheated out of rehab, after all.
I would find the diviest tavern in town, preferably not one in town proper, and see what I could see.
I pulled into Mary’s driveway and heard a dog inside barking like mad. Dixie. There was no vehicle in the drive, but then again, I was in Mary’s car. And maybe her husband was out, or didn’t drive.
I walked to the house, swinging the bottle of vodka from my hand as I did. I felt a bit edgy suddenly, but the sunny day and the feeling of peace could never have lasted anyway. I was about to visit a woman whose beloved nephew had been killed in cold blood, twenty-four hours earlier.
I rang the doorbell and waited a minute or two. What’s the polite amount of time to wait when you’ve shown up to someone’s house unannounced under these circumstances? But Mary and I had a conversation one day, about how people around here don’t call first, they just pop in if they’re driving by. It hadn’t even been like that in Downs Falls where I grew up, and I found it quaint and charming when she told me about it. I would find it hellish to live in – give me notice before you show up at my door – but in theory, quaint and charming.
I was about to walk back to the car, when the door swung open, and a very large, very happy dog was being restrained from giving me a whole lot of puppy love.
“Danny,” Mary said. Her voice was quiet. “I’m so glad you’re okay. Well, they told me you were.”
This wasn’t the Mary I knew. She was subdued and had no makeup on. She was wearing loose shorts and a heavy wool sweater despite the warm day. She had, of course, been crying.
“Oh, Mary,” I said. “I’m sorry to just drop in. I just wanted to see you.” I held up the vodka in my
hand. “Tell me to go if you don’t want company, or if you’re sleeping or whatever.” She seemed to think about it for a minute, but her eyes kept going to the bottle.
It occurred to me, suddenly, that Mary could quite possibly have been an alcoholic. She wasn’t a counsellor at Rose’s, but she could have gotten the job from Dickie because of her own experience with addiction, or some twelve-step organization. Being a former anorexic might not be the only monkey on her back.
Shit. Too late now. She took the bottle from my hand and waved me in. “Thanks,” she said. “Sorry for Dixie,” she said. “She’s feeling better, though.”
“I can see that,” I said. Mary waited until I’d stuck my hand out and Dixie licked it, then she let go of her collar. Suddenly I was getting a face bath from a dog who didn’t weigh much less than I did. I laughed. There’s nothing like a bit of doggie love to change your mood. I was definitely going to find a rescue dog when I got back to Toronto.
If I got back. Despite the slight uptake in my mood after my brief, blessedly solitary drive in the sun, I put my chances at about 50-50, if Laurence was insisting on staying until Dickie was found. And I wouldn’t leave Laurence here alone.
If I had thought about what the inside of Mary’s house might look like, it would be this. A mix of traditional, worn country furniture with some rock-and-roll touches thrown in. A well-aged La-Z-Boy covered in some kind of faded plaid, but with a removable headrest that had the Playboy Bunny logo on it. Some photos on the wall of smiling families that looked years old, side by side with a black velvet Elvis. I wasn’t quite sure if Elvis was meant to be ironic, but either way, the effect made me feel oddly at home. I’d never lived in a home like it, mind you, but it was Mary.
I followed her into the kitchen. It was painted bright pink with black borders, almost like a 1950s bathroom, and a retro pin-up was on the wall over the small table, like an old Vargas print.
“Very cute,” I said. “I love your house.” Mary was sitting at the table, an ashtray overflowing and her cigarettes on the table. The only part of the house that seemed out of place was the sink. It was overflowing with dirty dishes, and I didn’t see a dishwasher.
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