by Nick Craine
What could one deduce about the owner of this minimally, or evasively, decorated cell?
Nothing. It offered a blank face, a concealment, a rebuke to the enquiring eye. Chellis had been in several such rooms before, tagging along behind Hunt in his capacity as a helper and snoop, but the decor in those rooms had been less deliberate. What you saw, was basically what you got – the couch constructed of the same obvious, aesthetically-challenged material as the accountant who reclined upon it. You are what you sit on. That old woman’s house he’d helped Hunt with last week had been as barren as this room, but it was a barrenness that told a story. A sad story, too, yet a whole life had been there for the taking. This room wasn’t telling.
“I enjoyed your description of that interior.” Mrs. Havlock was flaunting her mind-reading abilities. She had re-entered the sitting room and was placing a tray on a coffee table unencumbered by magazines, books, fossilized pizza crusts, or beer-glass rings, unlike his old warhorse of a table at home. One of the other requests on his research list, less unsettling than post-mortem breakdown, had involved some house-hunting for her faceless, nameless corpse.
“I’m not certain if it’s the right domestic locale for my victim,” she said. “He would have to be blue-collar, a truck driver, a janitor.”
“Socio-economic lividity.” Chellis surveyed the offerings, which weren’t four-star but not entirely inedible, either. A miscellany of the pickled, the salty, the spicy. He went for a banana pepper, hoping for some heat.
“Clever boy.”
Wasn’t he just, though. The trusting and unassuming residents of Farclas had no idea how often their homes had appeared in the various works of Athena Havlock. On his rounds with Hunt he had lifted settings intimate and safe and cozy, had described them faithfully in photographic detail, and shortly after they had appeared exactly so, only with gore splattered on the walls, or a body with a smashed head sprawled on the new Kilim carpet, or a smoking gun upended in Aunt Maddie’s heirloom candy dish. When a Farclas citizen placed a Hunt Realty sign on his or her lawn, thinking perhaps of making a killing in the current market, they were selling much more than they realized. Yes, the dark underside of Monopoly.
Chellis choked, turned red, and felt much better.
“I was going to warn you about those.”
“Thanks.” Yeah, sure. “They’d make a good murder weapon. Is that a banana pepper in your pocket or are you just glad to . . . .”
“Tsk. Chellis grow up, will you.”
“Why? There’s nothing to recommend it, is there?”
“Not much. Where were we? Ah yes, the list.”
“You have a new one for me?”
“Sealed and signed. But first tell me about the photograph, any luck with that?”
“Are those olives?”
“I believe so. They were when I bought them. A local product.”
“Olives? Local? That explains the fur, I guess.” He chose a Brazil nut instead. “The photo? It’s in the bag.”
“Truly? That was fast.”
“Like that dead guy from TO. In the bag . . . body bag, that is. You must have known him?”
“Knew of him. He reviewed a book of mine once, one of my literary efforts.”
“Positive?”
“Dismissive. He referred to me as one of the ‘blue rinse crowd.’ Like most of my readers.”
“Ouch.”
“Dear, I’m not thin-skinned. Indeed, my skin’s so thick after all these years in the writing business, I don’t even need leather pants. The man was simply another neo-misogynist. He won’t be missed.”
“Is that like being a Neoplatonist?”
“Did he hate women, too? Everyone does, you know.”
“Come, come, Mrs. H, that’s not true.”
“Deep down everyone does, even other women. You do.”
“What? That’s crazy. I love women. Or would, if I could get my hands on one.”
“Are you sure? Think about it, your mother abandons you as a baby, your adoptive mother dies, foolishly, unnecessarily, your girlfriend leaves you and marries someone else, but still uses you for test-marketing, and you are employed, dominated shall we say, by another female – me. Your experience of women has been nothing but abandonment and betrayal.”
“Is this a roundabout way of saying you’re firing me?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Let’s change the subject. I found your grave on the internet. The one in the picture you gave me. I expect that’s where your secret admirer found it, too. It’s outside of a small town called Kinchie, about 120 kms from here.”
“Splendid. When can you go?”
“Go?”
“Precisely. I want to find out more. I want the dirt on this family, this town. Who knows, maybe I’ll write one of those generational sagas. It’s the woman I’m particularly interested in, this Bethea who has no death date. What an old-fashioned name. She was part of your assignment, too, if you recall.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Only as regards the goodies on the tray. Eat up.” Her eyes widened slightly. “My!”
“What is it?”
Chellis knew it was too much to hope that she’d suddenly recalled something else she wanted done, an urgent and much closer-to-home investigation. Or that having dislodged a crown in biting down on a petrified heel of hundred-year-old cheddar, she desperately needed him nearby for dental advice and consolation. He hated travelling. Driving out to Havlock House was his version of a world tour.
Her expression was beatific, self-delighted, a writerly look he recognized.
“I’ve thought up the title!” she said. “As you know, once I have that the rest follows as a matter of course.”
“And, it is . . .?”
“My Hands, Your Death.” She smiled. “Isn’t that brilliant?”
Chellis nodded, considering it. “I dunno, I sort of favour Redneck Pygmy myself.”
8
Terrae Filius
TRYING TO GET PAST VAUGHAN was like trying to sneak past Cerberus at the gates of the Underworld.
“Hi, Chellis. Hey, wait. Gosh, we thought you were . . . holy smokes. We saw the obituary.”
We? Would he be referring to his multiple perfect heads, or to himself and the little woman? Hard to tell over the phone.
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what I was calling about. Somebody’s idea of a joke.”
“Why, that’s terrible. No joke at all . . . it’s sick. Elaine thought it might be your idea.”
“My idea?”
“I told her you’d never do anything that stupid and thoughtless.”
“Thanks a mil, Vaughan. So, how did she take it? Was she terribly upset?”
“Not at all. You needn’t worry about that.”
“Well, great. Great. What did she say exactly?”
“Let me think. As I recall, she said . . . good. Yes, that was it.”
“Good? She was glad to hear that I was done like a dinner?”
“I wouldn’t say she was glad. Elaine doesn’t always show her emotions.”
“So I’ve noticed. Look, it’s been swell talking to you Vaughan. Can you put her on?”
“Not at the moment, I’m afraid. I have strict orders not to disturb her. She’s working on something. Sorry.”
“Okay, fine. How’s the cat?”
“Noir?”
“You called him Noir?”
“Elaine’s idea. Purrrfect, isn’t it?”
It was theft of intellectual property was what it was, but Chellis let it pass. As he also did Vaughan’s hilarious wordplay. “Listen, I have to go away for a few days, will you let your lovely wife know?”
“Sure thing. Have a good trip.”
“See you next fall.”
“Next fall? I thought you said you were going for a few days?”
“I did, Vaughan, I did.”
See! The guy’s sense of humour wasn’t even grade school level. How could Laney stand i
t? Chellis replaced the phone in its cradle. Did phones still have cradles? He doubted it. The baby, along with the baby’s accessories had been tossed out with the bathwater. All that was left were rapidly shrinking cells, more forensic evidence of a culture in decline.
But . . . much to do. In preparation for his journey into the wasteland, Chellis locked his doors, front and back, sealed the windows with weather-stripping, made a bag lunch to take with him, ate the bag lunch at the kitchen counter, then flumped down on his saggy, pre-owned couch to watch a whole season of SpongeBob Square Pants that Elaine had taped for him. Aww, she wasn’t so bad. He wondered if he should try calling again to let her know that she was an acceptable human being. Her guard dog would still be on duty, though. Didn’t the guy ever work?
Once he was replete with entertainment (why did SpongeBob’s friend Patrick remind him of Vaughan?), Chellis began to consider a renovation project. Leaning back on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, he surveyed his living room, an on-the-spot virtual tour, a little realty TV. He had time to knock out a few walls. Open concept, he was all for that, in philosophy and decor. Already he could sense the swirling eddies and crashing breakers of feng shui upon which his enlightened spirit would surf the room. He could see his hair fluttering silkily as he performed some interpretive dance or some action yoga in his revamped and energized personal space. Gone the pop crate end tables, the stolen Men At Work sign, the dust-encrusted lava lamp . . . .
On second thought, he wasn’t too sure about the fluttering locks. In an ad for shampoo currently playing on the tube, a model was flinging her head around like a ball on a stick, long blonde tresses aswirl, turning her grey matter into paste. What if everyone did that, tossing their manes hither and yon as they went about their daily business – whap, whap? Consider the blizzards of dandruff. And if you queued up too close to a hair-flinger at the grocery store you’d get a mouthful of flaxen-waxen keratin. It’d be like living amongst a herd of horses. Horses! What if one stepped on him during his enforced rural sojourn? Worse things could happen, he supposed, convinced that they would.
The chances of dying on the road? About 99 out of 100. Nor was this an unreasonable estimate: transport truck, guy on uppers, driving for days on end, Shania’s midriff stretched across his mind’s eye like a sleep mask, flattens Chellis’s car into a tin disk, Chellis’s lonesome hurtin’ heart squelches through his freaked-out pores like meat through a grinder. No matter, his destination is a graveyard anyway. Unless he could fictionalize his current mission with a little armchair research. Nah, his boss would catch him out – she’d know. It was too bad he’d made so many wise-guy cracks over the years about astral travel; his psyche wouldn’t be capable of taking seriously his request for an out-of-body lift to Kinchie.
He clicked the remote to a news channel, checking for worldending events occurring due north. Wars, HIV, mud slides, wildfires, Avian Flu, tornadoes, floods, enraged solitary men with guns . . . yes, yes, all that was occurring this very moment, but not anywhere near the calm, bucolic vicinity into which he was about to plunge. Potholes on the road would be his most grievous concern. Not that one should underestimate the power of potholes to suck the unwary into the bowels of the earth. Out there on some treacherous stretch of blacktop lurked a pothole that went straight to hell. Roadwork of the devil.
Clicking the remote again, searching searching, he wished there was a Chellis Channel that he could tune in to find out what he should expect in the next 24/7, what forecasts and comic-tragic personal programming might be on the roster for him. He landed on a local cable channel, so starved for news, especially of the titillating variety, that it was covering the Claymore murder again, granting that poor sod small town fame, while the horrors happening in the rest of the world thundered on, crushing all in their path.
A baseball-capped, bat-eared, tuberous Claymore resident was being interviewed. Chellis turned up the sound to hear him imputing the crime to a) terrorists, b) street gangs from Farclas (ha ha – at least we have streets), c) the baby-killing, pro-choice contingent, and d) his mother-in-law. Using the discordant conjunctions of the sub-literate – like, ya know, get it? – the guy was gumming together these stray strands of conspiracy theory into a single nut cluster. Chellis was placing his bets on the mother-in-law. Witches were once very useful for this sort of thing, but they’d gone out of fashion. No one would suspect the publishing world, barricaded behind their mountainous slush piles, of bumping someone off, but for all anyone knew, their office life could be as vicious as that of academe. Besides, murder required some competence, didn’t it? (Mrs. H frequently vented on the subject of publishing screw-ups.)
Chellis was enjoying the interview – can’t beat local produce – until he spotted something irksome that was momentarily captured on the screen. A flash of silver and a Lexus slid slowly by behind the interviewee. Him again? Chellis leaned forward, squinting at the screen. Because of the car’s smoky glass, the driver was obscured, as if wearing a hangman’s hood, but did briefly turn his head to take in the interview set-up, which caused his face to be illuminated by the television lights. Him again. Cripes. Chellis hadn’t seen Major Dick in years, and now he couldn’t go to the variety store or to Mrs. Havlock’s or repose in the privacy of his living (for lack of a better word) room without being subjected to Mr. Rep Management cruising along in his trusty egomobile. Was Toronto suddenly so crime free that Dick had to do his rubbernecking in the sticks? And bring his date along for the ride? The über-observant Chellis had noticed a female on the passenger side, slouched down, her head buried in shadow.
He flicked off the TV in disgust – a defiled medium, no longer cool – and peeled a book off the top of the pile that Moe had given him. Genealogy. His immediate opinion of the hobby was curmudgeonly. He decided that he and Nabokov were of like minds on this subject, even if VN’s mind in its present form – an elegant cupful of dust, alas! – was yet vastly superior to his own. “A game for old people,” the great man had pronounced, an exercise in vanity and nostalgia, whereby the “Christmas tree of one’s childhood is replaced by the Family Tree.” What would VN have made of the burgeoning industry that genealogy had become? The thousands of books devoted to it, the tourism, the bulging archives, the heraldic crests and aristocratic connections gladly provided by genealogical entrepreneurs and hucksters. But then, everyone loves a mystery. Some people were simply so clan-besotted (family values! outsiders need not apply) that they wanted to embrace and honour the whole lot, especially the dead relations who, unlike the living ones, no longer raged or bored you stupid.
Chellis pictured armies of family historians swarming over the lands of the past digging for roots. The horticultural term made him grind his teeth, which was the only part of his anatomy – hair, nails, and other hardware aside – that could honestly lay claim to roots. He grimaced as he read the title of the book, Rooting for Yourself, which seemed to place it in a motivational-genealogical-self-pleasuring genre. The prospect of what lay within was almost as alarming as that of the tiny, whimsical volume he’d spotted in the New Age section of the bookstore: Elf Love. (Might have been a title typo, though, and that wouldn’t have surprised him. Also might have been part of a series: Elf Help, Elf Sacrifice, etc.) The book in hand had been written by some pinhead who had appended B.A. to his name. Oh well, in that case, an expert. Better give it a read. It was bound to provide plenty of fodder for a bracing sneer session. Even in its tender, twiggier forms, sarcasm was a worthy and enlivening branch of wit, and one shouldn’t pass up a chance to indulge. And since he was paralysed with procrastination, a few pages of this book might be all that was required to speedily propel him out the door. He cracked it open, prepared to receive the gentle gift of amusement, if not a more robust hit of hilarity. Surely no dangers lurked within for those whose shallow, hair-thin genealogical roots had been plucked out and sent whirling away down the root canal? Wrong.
First off, Chellis was informed that he was a private investiga
tor (he was not – now even complete strangers with B.A.’s were insisting on this) and the subject of his investigation was his personal past, the deep past, the anonymous loam in which the bodies of his forebears were entombed. His was to be a thrilling, albeit challenging, quest involving the disinterment of his great great grand sires (so illustrious they lit up the ground) stretching all the way back to the first clever monkey who had the foresight to envision an atom-sized Chellis bopping around on the future’s horizon.
Absorbing stuff for some perhaps, but leaves of the book fluttered by unread as Chellis, in his investigative role, searched out the more practical information. About mid-text he landed upon a required exercise which involved filling in an initial genealogy chart with the known family members. A blank insert was provided for this and he dutifully unfolded it and pencilled in his name – the fruit, the nut, the sole product of a generic family tree. He could practically hear the distant roar of his bloodline, the vast red sea that had pooled (puddled? dried up?) within him. Him alone. The end product of what exactly? He stared at his name, afloat on the page by itself, potential connecting extensions barbed as a burr but hooking onto nothing. Depressing or what. His spirits began to sink. A sudden spiritual incontinence took hold and he could feel them sluicing through his boxers. They slid down his leg, leaked through a hole in his sock, through a crack in the floor and into the basement where they formed into condensation on a metal pipe from which they slowly dripped into a faded-yellow margarine container, collecting there like mouse piss, a spa for spiders.