Seaweed on the Rocks

by Stanley Evans

  “Only when I laugh.”

  “That’s the spirit,” he said, his voice faintly satirical. “Come with me.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  They had taken Marnie out of the emergency ward and she was now in a regular hospital bed in an ordinary private room. It was dark in there, apart from a small bedside lamp with a 15-watt bulb that illuminated the top of her head and threw the rest of her into shadow. Joe McNaught was on his knees at the foot of the bed, snivelling like an infant, his hands clasped in mute supplication to whatever Christian saint he was addressing. When he heard Dr. Auckland and me come in, he rose to his feet and said with a catch in his voice, “It’s God’s will, Silas. It’s the will of God.” And he staggered out like a stricken elephant.

  Marnie had lost quite a lot of weight in the weeks that had passed since I’d found her unconscious at Donnelly’s Marsh, and she’d been skinny even then. Drained away by her battle against death, her face was gaunt—loose skin laid upon unfleshed bones. The blankets had been turned down to her chest, and both of her cold, skinny, tattooed arms were uncovered. Her heart-lung machine had been switched off, and IV fluids no longer dripped into her blue-veined arms. Her eyes were closed and she looked asleep.

  I kissed her pallid cheek and sat down beside her.

  Smiling remotely, Dr. Auckland left the room.

  I took Marnie’s left hand and gently squeezed her fingers. They were cold and unresponsive, although at my touch her eyes seemed to flicker behind lids as fragile as butterfly wings. I got up from the chair, went around the bed, tucked her exposed right arm beneath the covers, went back to the chair, sat down again and held her left hand as before. Gradually her fingers got a bit warmer, and mine got colder, but it was very quiet and peaceful sitting there. I was thinking about my blood tests and about Marnie and about how peculiar life is sometimes and I dozed off—or maybe I went into a meditative state for a while—and when I checked my wristwatch again it was ten minutes past four. I knew I’d entered Marnie’s room at two o’clock.

  Her eyes were wide open and she was looking at me. She said quietly, “I’ve been sleeping and dreaming. Sometimes I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t. Like that time out on Donnelly’s Marsh when you came into that kitchen and started kissing me. Do you remember that, Silas?”

  “I remember something like that.”

  “You looked the way you always look, Silas, but I was in this kind of dream and you acted different to the way you usually do. It felt real, but I knew it was a dream because I could fly. Besides, you never kissed me like that before. It was pretty sexy, you know.”

  Oh dear, I thought. “Was it?”

  “Yeah, because you’re a sexy guy, Silas. I was lying on the floor, you were kneeling down, kissing me, and then I sort of floated up to the ceiling and I could look down and see us. I’ve always had dreams about flying, ever since I was little. Then these ambulance guys came in and you stopped kissing me and I lost track . . . ”

  “They’ve been pumping you full of chemicals for weeks, Marnie. It’s bound to affect your mind.”

  “Yeah? I guess that’s explains it. I’ve been wondering what’s been happening to me. I’ve been singing a spirit song that I haven’t heard since I was a little girl, and I haven’t even seen the inside of a dance house for years. Yet there I was in my dreams singing my spirit song inside a dance house.”

  “Was anybody in the dance house with you?”

  “Not at first. It was a big dark place, and the only light was a tiny fire ringed with fir-bark. After a while I saw Old Mary Cooke sitting about six feet from the fire, spinning an ivory bobbin.” Marnie smiled up at me. “Life’s a mystery, innit?” And she went on talking about Old Mary Cooke and ivory bobbins until her voice faded, her eyes closed and she fell silent.

  I walked along to McNaught’s office, tapped on the door and went in. He was sitting behind his desk, leaning back with his eyes closed. When he heard my footsteps, he opened his eyes and said, “I left a message with Moran. Did you get it?”

  “I did. I tried to reach you but sometimes you’re hard to find.”

  “Harvey Cheeke is missing and I’m a little worried about him. Did you know he had tuberculosis?”

  I nodded.

  “He really ought to be in a TB hospital.” McNaught tipped his chair up and rested his arms on his desk. “This is Harvey’s second home—he eats here at least five times a week. Sometimes he checks in, stays a couple of days. In the meantime his condition keeps getting worse. “

  “Spreading germs?”

  “Shit, no. We know how to deal with people like Harvey. He’s not the only chest case out there. Anyway, bottom line, Silas, is do what you can to find him.”

  I went back to my office and put Harvey’s name on the wire.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Charlotte Fox didn’t want to see me, but I wanted to see her, wanted to find out how a Calgary oil baron’s privileged half-Native daughter lives. That evening I drove over to Moss Street and parked, admiring the dusky blue fall of the Sooke Hills into the purple sea. It was a pleasantly cool twilight, and a fugitive breeze brushed my cheek. I was wearing a khaki safari jacket, a white knit shirt with thin brown stripes, pressed jeans, and profligate Mephisto loafers to replace the Chinese shoes I’d had to junk. No socks, good fake Rolex. My head had stopped aching, and I had a bottle of wine in a paper bag. I walked up to Charlotte’s front door with a pleasant sense of anticipation that lasted until George Fox answered my ring. He was wearing a white dinner jacket, pleated shirt, black bow tie, black trousers with satin stripes down the legs, and black lace-up patent leather shoes. His lips were stretched in a grin as if my arrival amused him in some obscure way.

  “Long way from the reserve, aren’t you, bud?” he said, his grin widening as he looked me up and down. “Sure you’re not lost?”

  “Maybe I am,” I replied politely. “I thought this was a private house, but maybe it’s a restaurant. Are you the maitre ‘d?”

  He was still deciding how to respond to that when I told him I had a delivery for Miss Fox.

  “I’ll take it,” he growled, holding his hand out for it.

  “No, you won’t. My instructions are to deliver it into Ms. Fox’s hands.”

  “She’s busy,” he said brusquely, “and I doubt if she’ll see you.”

  He stepped back, but if he had expected me to wait on the steps, I disappointed him by following him inside the large entrance hall. It was well-appointed and attractive—although for me at that moment its principal attraction was George Fox himself. I’d seen him at a distance at the bones ceremony in the Warrior longhouse, but this was the first time I’d seen him up close.

  Soft piano music played somewhere deep inside the house, but what caught my attention was the sound of footsteps on the wooden floors above. Suddenly Charlotte Fox appeared on the landing at the top of the stairs that led up from the hall. She paused dramatically and perhaps deliberately in front of a stained glass window, its ambient light behind her, before coming down, her left hand trailing along the banister. She wore a beige silk jacket with matching silk trousers that were loose around her ankles and tight around her thighs. When she got closer, I noticed a blue-diamond seahorse gambolling across the aubergine shirt that draped the impressive waves of her upper body. The alligator-skin handbag clutched beneath her arm had evidently been crafted by the same genius responsible for her pointy-toed shoes. It was an impressive entrance—straight out of Vanity Fair or Hollywood, Charlotte being the star attraction, George the obnoxious prig, and I presumably the kid from the pizza shop.

  George said, “Some Native guy with something for you, Charlie.”

  I handed her the paper bag. She took it, realized what it contained and, without looking to see what kind of bottle I’d brought, murmured dryly, “A jug instead of flowers. How original. It’s lovely to see you, Mr. Seaweed. Sorry our meeting will have to be brief because I’m tied up this evening.”

  “Th
at’s too bad. But if you have a minute, there’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  She inclined her head slightly. “Let’s go into the lounge.” And she led the way through an open doorway into a lounge no larger than a church hall with a twelve-foot ceiling, hardwood floor, a lot of Asian rugs and a half-dozen ornate lamps set upon antique cabinets and tables. A youthful Charlotte looked out of one of the frames hanging from a picture rail. George tagged along behind us. She set the bag I’d brought down on a miniature table and sat in a big chair on one side of the unlit fire. I took the chair on the other side, all the while trying to think of a diplomatic way of telling George to get lost. Charlotte may have been thinking the same thing because, her eyes gleaming with mischief, she said, “I think drinks would be nice, so Georgie will do the honours. I’ll have my usual. What’s yours, Mr. Seaweed?”

  “Rum and coke, please. No ice.”

  She repeated, “A rum and coke for Mr. Seaweed, Georgie. No ice.”

  Brother George froze for a second before he ambled to a cabinet, opened it, and standing with his back to us, brought out various bottles and glasses. With much unnecessary clatter he made three drinks, put them on a silver tray and carried it over to his sister. She took a glass of red wine. Then, instead of offering the tray to me, he set it on a low mahogany table, helped himself to a glass of red wine and went to stand with his back against a bookcase. My rum and coke had three chunks of ice in it, and the mahogany table lay beyond easy reach.

  I leaned back in my chair, smiled, crossed my legs and stayed put.

  His eyes upon me, George looked like a man deep in amusement.

  Charlotte gave me a chance to pick up the glass myself. When I didn’t, she rose from her chair and said coldly, “That’ll be all, Georgie. We won’t be needing you anymore. So why don’t you just toddle off and play somewhere else?”

  Instead of moving, George maintained his faintly scornful look and tasted his drink. Charlotte’s attempt to dominate her brother had failed dismally. Flushing, she dumped my drink into the fireplace and carried the empty glass to the cabinet. At that moment the doorbell rang, and George casually detached himself from the bookcase and went to answer the door. We heard his footsteps crossing the hall, followed by voices. Two or more visitors—elderly females to judge by their tone—had arrived.

  “Some of George’s clients,” Charlotte explained as she made me a fresh drink. When she brought it to me, her hand briefly touched mine—she was shivering with suppressed rage.

  I was enjoying myself, had already decided that coming here tonight was a very good idea, and I raised my glass to Charlotte and grinned as I tasted the rum and coke.

  “Don’t mind Georgie, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that he’s very protective of me, and sometimes he forgets his manners,” Charlotte advised, adding pointedly, “Maybe the fact that you’re a Native has something to do with his attitude.”

  Stifling the obvious rejoinder, I said, “Fine. It’s clear that he plays second fiddle, that his opinions don’t carry much influence with you.”

  “You’re seeing us at our worst,” she countered. “It’s not always cat and dog with us. And in case you’re wondering, George is only staying here temporarily. Generally he has his own place, but he’s going through a bad patch right now.”

  “You mean he’s out of money and out of a job?”

  “Well, he’s never really had a proper job,” Charlotte said, and then added defensively, “Father had high expectations for his only son, expectations that nobody could possibly have lived up to. From the time he was little, George was pushed to succeed, to be somebody big like his dad. So of course he has an inferiority complex.”

  “Does George know this, or is that your take on things?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “George might have disappointed his father, many of us do, but he has responsibilities to himself and he’s screwed up there a few times as well.”

  Her eyes hot with sudden anger, she said, “Why do you think he called you a Native just now? It was so ridiculous that you ought to feel sorry for him instead of being angry.”

  Obviously I’d pushed that line far enough. I said with a grin, “This is a beautiful house. When you were coming downstairs just now, with your brother in his monkey suit dancing attendance, I was thinking that it was like a scene from a movie.”

  “What—Andy Hardy Meets Nancy Drew?”

  “No. Sunset Boulevard, except you’re too young to play Gloria Swanson, and George has too much hair to play Erich von Stroheim.”

  “But you see yourself as William Holden, I suppose, observing everything with sad cynical eyes and making judgments.”

  “Nope. I see myself as Adventurous Boy Detective, fighting hopeless, valiant battles against the forces of evil. As for making judgments about people—if we didn’t make judgments, life would become rather complicated.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  I went on, “For example, the way you look—with those beautiful, expensive clothes and that diamond seahorse pinned to your shirt—tells me several things about you. It’s why I’m here, after all, instead of eating hot dogs with somebody who keeps ferrets.”

  “You said you had something to ask me. But now you say you came because you like the way I look.”

  “Sure, and I’m crazy about the way you live, too, and I love this house. I like the way George’s highly polished shoes reflect the deep hues of polished oak and coloured glass.”

  “Do you have a question for me or not?”

  “A question sends a message, doesn’t it?” I said, finishing my drink. “My question is what’s stopping us from getting out of here and going for a drive? Find some place nice and have supper.”

  “Oh dear, you are persistent. Well, to be frank, I’ve already eaten,” she said, smiling. “However, we still have a couple of minutes before I have to kick you out, so there’s time for another drink. What kind of plonk did you bring me?”

  I collected the bottle from the table, held it with the proper reverence and let her read the label.

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed, the tip of her tongue appeared and brushed her upper lip. “You’re full of surprises. NK’Mip Qwam Qwmt Pinot Noir,” she said, pronouncing the words correctly. “And here I’ve been thinking of you as a lowly wage slave.”

  “I know somebody who owns a large chunk of the Okanagan. He sends me a case of this stuff occasionally.”

  I opened the bottle, let Charlotte sniff the cork, poured a thimbleful into her wineglass and watched her eyes glaze over when she sipped it. Instead of telling me what she thought it tasted like, she sighed. I filled her glass and one for myself, looked deeply into her eyes and said, “Cheers.”

  “Mmmm,” she said, holding my gaze for a long moment before concentrating on the nectar in her hands. A minute passed in a reverential silence during which we could hear George and his guests talking and laughing together in a distant room.

  Charlotte’s leather bag lay at her feet. She tucked it beneath her arm, stood up and said, “Will you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

  I stood politely and watched her trip off in her high heels. From her footsteps and her partially audible voice, I knew that she was speaking to somebody on the hall phone. When she came back, I was stretched out in my chair, admiring the moulded plaster cherubs flying across the room’s ceiling.

  “You don’t need to stand up every time I move,” she said, as I struggled to get to my feet. “I prefer things less formal.”

  I laughed outright. “Informal, Ms. Fox, in this lovely old house?”

  “Call me Charlotte,” she said, sitting down. “And this lovely old house, as you call it, was an empty lot when I bought it five years ago.” Her voice and manner were as changeable as the wind. Now she went on cautiously, “I hope you’ll forgive me for being a bit standoffish, but I’ve heard certain things about you. Your visit here tonight, for example—it’s been interesting and occasionally
amusing, but I can’t forget that you’re a cop.”

  “Even cops have social lives.”

  “They have professional lives, too, as well as secret lives, and not-so-secret sexual lives.”

  “You have been busy.”

  “That’s not very reassuring.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. Everything I’ve said tonight goes. I’m here because I’ve been thinking about you in a certain connection. I didn’t want more days to drift by without talking to you again.”

  “In case you’re wondering, I’m not just playing hard to get. I actually do have another appointment for this evening, which I’ve just tried to cancel. Unfortunately, it can’t be done. I’m sorry.” She paused and then said, “So if that’s all you came to ask me . . . ”

  “No, it isn’t. Lawrence Trew has been missing for several weeks now, and I think you might know why.”

  “Whatever put that idea into your head?”

  I waited.

  “I don’t know where Dr. Trew is. I wish I did. I am worried about him, but not for the reasons you might think.” Choosing her words with care, she went on, “I know somebody who is being blackmailed—one of my women friends—and I’m not sure how to advise her. I’m not sure it’s safe to confide in you, though I suppose you could tell me things that might help her to deal with the problem. At the same time, I’ve been hearing things about you.”