Thought You Were Dead

by Nick Craine

  “Chellis Beith,” he offered. His name merely a decorative piece of fakery, nothing so incarnate and gutsy as Bill Ball or Nancy Perineum. (Okay, so he made that one up.)

  “I know.”

  “Right, the neighbours. I suppose they’re having me arrested for not spraying poison on the crabgrass and depriving their future offspring of toxic H2O cocktails?”

  “Negative. Although they weren’t too thrilled about all that morbid garbage you dumped on their front lawn.”

  “What, do they send in a daily report on my activities? I thought the plastic flowers and Styrofoam crosses looked fashionably goth. They did place two Etruscan urn knock-offs outside their front door, so anyone who knows anything would assume they were into funerary lawn decor.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, they’re spooked. They think you’re Sicilian.”

  “Seriously? I could give them a finger, but I wouldn’t want to cut it off first. I don’t like them that much.”

  “Who are your people anyway?”

  Small town question, but a significant one.

  “My people? I don’t have people.” He couldn’t help but picture a cage with rodent-sized relatives within, scrambling on hamster wheels and gnawing on stale kibble. “Unless you mean my PR. Or is having people some sort of disease, like scabies?”

  “A real joker, eh?”

  “The genuine article.” He considered a grammarian-style sally here, but wisely, and with a prickle of regret, let it go. “Only trying in my humble way to make the world a happier place.”

  “Does making the world a happier place involve taking out some of the people who are in it?”

  “Inspector, that doesn’t sound like a very nice question.”

  “I was only joking, Mr. Beith, when I said we could use a murder in town.”

  “And a fine quip it was, too. For someone in your profession. A worthy effort, anyway.”

  Arthur Foote was giving him the stoneface treatment.

  “Has someone been murdered?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Moi? I’d say no. I’m sure you’re familiar with the worn, although not unreasonable phrase, ‘It can’t happen here.’ Why do you ask?”

  His interrogator reached into an open briefcase on the floor and pulled out a baggie that contained what Chellis at first took to be a flattened brownie . . . or a slab of hash . . . or both. Alas, no. “Recognise this?” He dangled the plastic bag between them.

  “Hang on.” Chellis jumped up, slapped his back pockets, sat back down. Was this possible? Clearly he was going to have to rub some of Elaine’s homicidal soap on his wallet and clap it permanently onto his rear.

  “Twice?” he said. “What a hoot. Thanks for keeping it fresh, eh. Where did you find it?”

  “In a forested area behind a house belonging to a woman named Athena Havlock. You know her?”

  Chellis inclined his head toward the bagged wallet and narrowed his eyes. “It has teeth marks on it. What were you doing out there in the woods Inspector, scavenging for nuts and berries?”

  “Trevor found your wallet.”

  “Trevor?”

  “Canine unit.”

  “I see. Whatever happened to names like Sport and Champ?”

  “Why don’t you answer my question first?”

  “Okay, yes, I know her.” Elaine hadn’t been bluffing about calling the cops, the minx.

  “But wait, oh Jesus, you’re not telling me . . . she isn’t . . . ?”

  “Dead?”

  Chellis held his breath, eyes widening.

  “Not that we know of.”

  He exhaled a stream of pent alarm. “You had me worried there.”

  “So you’re an actor as well as a comedian? Could be you did away with her and buried her in the woods. Might be better to confess now and save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “Heck, I wouldn’t want you guys to go to any trouble, but sorry, no confessions forthcoming. Not even about the jelly beans I nicked from the Five & Dime when I was a kid and for which I can’t be blamed, since as we all know such petty thievery is a rite of passage into duplicitous and dishonest adulthood. That said, Mrs. Havlock is my employer. She funds my agreeably unstructured lifestyle, for which I am endlessly grateful, even though I can’t believe I just used the word ‘lifestyle.’ Would you kill your own boss? Skip that, dumb question. What would be my motive? I scarcely have enough motivation most days to open a can of beans, let alone knock someone off. So she is missing?”

  “We have good reason to believe so. Tell me what you were doing out there. And skip the lecture this time.”

  He did, infusing his recitation with as much boyish innocence as he could muster.

  Arthur Foote listened with barely concealed skepticism, but Chellis knew that his was a standard information-gathering mode. When grilled about Athena’s daily routine, he offered up what he could, but found for all their many meetings and work-related chats, that he didn’t really know much about what she got up to when she wasn’t working. What she did when she was at her city condo was as mysterious to him as the city itself. Toronto, he kept meaning to go there. Edgy shops, edgy art galleries, edgy restaurants (no Bev!), but what if he slit himself open on one of those edges? What if he had to get on the subway? The thought of zooming hellbent through the underworld in a fluorescent tube while pressed up against striving cosmopolitans, expressionless as stiffs, made him almost hyperventilate on the spot. Unless it was the formaldehyde and fire retardant radiating off the synthetic carpet that was getting up his nose.

  He wondered if he should mention Richard Major hanging around Havlock House. Or, reportedly, driving around with an unidentified older woman in his car. Seeing as Dick’s father was fast friends with the Chief of Police, he thought not, not yet. But by omitting his suspicions, biased as they were, was he endangering her further, if danger was what she was in?

  “You’ll find her?” This was more plea than question.

  “She’ll turn up. Lots of people disappear for awhile and don’t think anything of it. Independent woman, no one she has to report to, might be off somewhere having a fling. Public person, too, could be she needs some R&R in an out-of-the-way place.”

  “Possibly.” Can’t get more out of the way than Farclas. “So do I get my wallet back?”

  “Nope.” Foote dropped it back into his briefcase.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Chellis sighed. “I have another one at home anyway.”

  “Don’t you be leaving town, Mr. Beith.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Before I go, Inspector Foote, I do have some practical advice to offer. If you slather some more acrylic on the right side of your painting, it’ll hang better. It’s unbalanced.” In more ways than one.

  “Yeah? How do you know I’m the artist?”

  “Horror vacui. We’re all afraid of something.”

  Driving home without a license felt daring, like not wearing underwear, which was about as much adventure and misdemeanour as his nerves could stand. And this was with knowing that both of those items, license and boxers, were presently residing in a secure, if not proper, place. How much excitement does a regular guy need? Albeit a sensitive guy with no more than a dash of paranoia in his half-glass. This, a squirt of psychological Tabasco, was all that was required to keep him alert and watchful.

  As he motored along, the car purring like a kitten since Elaine, his sweet and sourpuss, had fixed it (parking on rocks evidently does nothing to improve a vehicle’s more useful functions), he felt reassured about his immediate safety. No one had tampered with his brakes; no windshield-shattering steel rods had thus far ‘accidentally’ flown out of the sweaty grip of a roadside construction worker; no over-the-cliff sideswipes were being perpetrated by a shadowing fellow-driver who had fellowship far from his mind. All of the above were standard investigative disincentives that Marcel Lazar frequently had to survive before being allowed to wrap up a case. Or wrap his unbreakable mitts around a tumbler of Laphroaig while i
n some seedy bar brooding handsomely about the one niggling and elusive detail that would pull a mass of painstakingly accumulated evidence together. (Seeing as Chellis did most of the background accumulating, it was doubly galling that Lazar should be rewarded with his favourite drink, even if only on unpeaty paper. When he had once complained about this to Mrs. H, she had grinned at him with evident delight.)

  Contemplating danger seemed to be giving Chellis an endorphin boost. Bonus. Thus, feeling expansive, he decided to take the long way home by cruising along the main drag. He saw that The Age Spot had a sandwich board leaning drunkenly out front advertising an All-You-Can-Eat-Or-Else buffet. This was tempting, in much the same suicidal way that gazing into an abyss from the roof of a high-rise is tempting. He didn’t stop, also having noticed several over-satisfied customers staggering out the front door in search of the nearest vomitarium.

  Wheeled sidewalk traffic was rolling along in sync with him. Little kids were being pushed in strollers by roller-skating parents, old folks were chugging along on scooters, a man on a unicycle was weaving in and around pedestrians. Chellis experienced a spasm of lyrical appreciation for his fellow travellers. He spotted a teenage girl in front of the drugstore, elbow raised and face pressed against her shoulder, nose twitching as she smelled her armpit. A sense of utter privacy, or indifference, while in a public place was one of the great advantages of self-absorption. Gormless youth was endearing in any event.

  All in all, Chellis felt uplifted sightseeing in his own town. Everything seemed to be infused with a salutary glow. Why he should feel this way was beyond him, particularly under the present circumstances, but he knew he should accept it as a gift from nowhere. A gift that perhaps overlay and obscured a niggling detail of the sort that often eluded Lazar.

  As he pulled into his driveway he did think, does Mrs. Hav expect me, her dauntless and indefatigable researcher, to find her, to actually research her whereabouts? Wouldn’t put it past her.

  Glancing over at his neighbour’s place, he saw that their jacquard curtains – window treatments rather – were pulled shut. There also appeared to be a sign on the lawn that for a change didn’t belong to a renovation company, but instead announced the installation of a security system. Well, good. It was decent of them to take on their share of the fear that seemed to be wafting through the air these days. Lessened his burden.

  He took a deep breath on entering the house, gratefully inhaling the domestic and familiar, an olfactory concoction of his own making that not everyone (i.e. no one he could think of) would appreciate. Oddly, taking in another lung-full, he detected a long lost odour in the mix. Not that he didn’t welcome it back, but its sudden arrival was unsettling. A distinct but very faint sense of Rennie was in the air, that lily-of-the-valley, earthy smell of her skin. Her fragrance must have leached out of the walls, or out of her old tatty curtains and furniture, drawn by the heat of the day.

  After a couple of stiff drinks, he got Elaine on the blower, surprised that he’d scared her up so easily.

  “Why are you answering the phone?” he said.

  “It rang.”

  “Where’s Huckleberry Hound?”

  “I haven’t seen him for years, but if you mean Vaughan, he’s at the veterinarian’s.”

  “Did he decide to get fixed, too?”

  “Ha, double ha. What do you want?”

  “Don’t be too friendly. I might get all hot and bothered.” He registered her derisive snort. “I just wanted to say thanks, eh.”

  “You’re welcome. What did I do, besides go with you on your moronic quest, save you from walking home, buy you lunch and breakfast, all of the many services for which you’re usually not so grateful. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  “You could do some work on your social graces. I hate to tell you this Laney, but the Miss Congeniality title is going to elude you again this year. But getting back to my gratitude. The service you left off your ta-da list was calling the cops about my missing boss, which resulted in me getting hauled in for questioning. They think I did it.”

  “Did what? It’d be a miracle if you managed to clean your teeth in a day. Besides, I didn’t call them.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Well who did?”

  “Don’t ask me. Her publisher, her agent . . . .”

  “She fired her agent.”

  “Okay, so maybe he bumped her off. Chel, listen to me for once. Stay out of this, don’t get involved.”

  “I am involved.”

  “Good luck then.”

  “Thanks a load.”

  “As I said in the first place, you’re welcome.” And she hung up.

  Fuck. He wandered into his bedroom to collect Dick’s wallet. Might as well dig himself in deeper by making that call to the rep management specialist himself. All that cash (now minus a few bucks), plus his cards, Dick must be shitting himself, which was a gratifying thought. He’d be so grateful to get it back that he’d spill the beans about Mrs. H. Yep.

  But the wallet wasn’t on the dresser where he’d left it. He was positive he’d left it there, unless he was having a sudden sneak preview of dementia. He checked the drawers, delving beneath the mateless socks and T-shirts grey as dishwater. He got down on his hands and knees and gazed into the furred world beneath the dresser. He heard some sort of pounding racket, and realized that someone was knocking on the front door. The cops again? More likely some kid selling inedible chocolate bars for a school trip to Toronto where something horrible will happen to him that will mess him up for the rest of his life. Or something fantastic will happen, with the same result. Either way, Chellis felt that it would be morally reprehensible to buy the chocolate bar, but he couldn’t fit himself under the dresser to hide. And since his car was in the driveway, it was obvious that he was home.

  Or it might be Moe with good news. He hated it when people dropped by unannounced, but then, once they were in, giving him a hug or a peck on the cheek, then chatting and drinking and laughing . . . he loved it. Loved the unexpected company, the infusion of warmth in the house, the heightened and animated atmosphere. He got up to answer the door. Whoever it was, they weren’t giving up.

  As he reached for the doorknob, he had a disturbing thought. A second body always turns up. This was a reliable ingredient of the formula, and one to which Mrs. H adhered, although creatively, even deviously, so that the discovery came unexpectedly.

  But hey, even if it was subliminally expected, the body wouldn’t normally show up on one’s own front doorstep. Would it?

  16

  Arrival of the Queen of Sheba

  BOYS WILL BE BOYS, and he couldn’t help but stare. The body was a stunner . . . and fortunately alive. And said body appeared to have a bagged bottle of hooch – aka corpse reviver – clasped in one hand. Evidently the local missionaries were resorting to desperate, but more delightful, measures. It was usually the bags themselves who appeared on his doorstep, with a fervent gleam in their eyes and black purses heavy as slabs clutched in their bony hands. This one was almost tempting enough to make him want to invite her in to discuss the worrying state of the world today. But better not.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m irredeemably irreligious.”

  She smiled. She was very pretty.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I’m a spiritual guy. I’m profoundly spiritual, I’m sure you can tell. But the whole religion thing, it’s not for me. I’m sure it’s done some good in the world, but on average it’s done more harm, wouldn’t you say, inciting violence and hatred and intolerance? And no matter the brand, it’s usually headed by some dickless, misogynistic power-hungry nut. Um, you’re not a Shriner are you, or a Shrinerette, I guess it would be? Of course you’re not wearing a fez and I can see you didn’t park one of those funny little cars in my driveway. You can’t be a Girl Guide, too tall and no obvious cookies, unless the Guides have gotten into bootlegging, and you’re far too comely for – �
��

  “A sister?” she said.

  “A Catholic! That explains the bottle. Well, well, so micks are doing the old door-to-door now? The pews must really be emptying out. So you’re a nun? Wow.” He surveyed her skin-tight black jeans, her navel-revealing top decorated with the Stones trademark tongue – unfurled and lolling as his was about to do – her wickedly pointy green shoes. “I definitely approve of the more modern habit, but does the Pope know? His Fluffiness, he’s a pretty conservative guy, eh, despite the nickname?”

  Her smile widened. She had a beautiful mouth. He could hear the cells popping on the bubble wrap in which his heart was securely sealed (he’d been keeping it fresh for Elaine).

  “You are Chellis Beith?”

  He nodded. “’Fraid so.”

  “I read the obituary.”

  “So you’ve come to the wake?”

  “I was shocked. But then I read it again more carefully and thought it was hilarious.”

  “This is a good review.”

  “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

  “Me?”

  “You,” she said, moving in and giving him a lightning-strike embrace. A one-armed hug because of the bottle she was holding, but still it was luscious, full-body contact, her warmth seeming to ignite his shirt. He was so enchanted he could have sworn he heard music welling up. Handel to be precise.

  She stepped back, and raking her fingers through her long curly black hair, plucked out an ear bud. He hadn’t realized that she was wired for sound. She tucked this into her back pocket along with the concealed MP3 Player, then she raised the bagged bottle and waggled it. “Let’s celebrate!”