by Jim Powell
‘Franky wasn’t here.’
‘No. Exactly. So I’m baffled. Do you remember those old locked-room puzzles? You know – a locked room with no windows, and when the door’s forced, there’s a dead body, some broken glass, a pool of water, and no one in the room. Explain it.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I don’t remember that one.’
‘The body was a goldfish,’ said Mike. ‘There was no person in the room, but there was a cat. The cat knocked over the goldfish bowl.’
‘Why didn’t the cat eat the goldfish?’
‘I guess the cat was vegetarian.’
‘This isn’t getting us anywhere,’ I said.
‘It might be. What I’m saying is that there could be a different explanation that hasn’t occurred to us.’
‘Well, I wish it would,’ I said. ‘And quickly.’
‘Did you ever hear rumours about Nelson and missing money?’ asked Mike.
‘Yes. I didn’t know if you had, so I didn’t mention it.’
‘I didn’t believe them at the time,’ said Mike. ‘But it makes you think, doesn’t it?’
‘Did you like Nelson?’
‘Not that much,’ said Mike. ‘I can’t say I’ll miss him.’
‘Nor will I.’
Marcie got back shortly after eight that evening. She’d been driving all day and was exhausted and hungry, and drained as she always was after that trip. I felt guilty again for not accompanying her, for never accompanying her, as well as for what had happened in her absence. I left the bar to Steve, who looked disappointed, because he wanted to hear how Marcie was after her trip, as he always did. I took her to our rooms and fed her and sat her down and asked her how it had been. I told her about Great-uncle Alvin’s death and funeral, and made up my mind to leave the rest of my news to the next day. It never works that way with Marcie, though.
‘What’s the matter, honey?’
‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow.’
‘I think you should tell me now, don’t you?’
So I did. In full, and much of the time in tears. It had become too much for me, yet she should have been the one in need of consolation.
‘I screwed up,’ I said. ‘I’ve lost us money and I’ve lost us Nelson. Apart from failing to lock the door, I don’t know how I screwed up. I wish you’d been here.’
‘Let’s go to bed,’ said Marcie, ‘and see how things look in the morning.’
Marcie’s always one for seeing how things look in the morning. She seems to have a filing clerk in her brain that sorts everything out in a neat, logical way while she’s asleep. I have a troop of monkeys in my brain that scatters everything to the winds. I prefer to go on talking about things at night. But, on this occasion, my thoughts were addled enough without the aid of the monkeys, so I agreed to let the filing clerk take charge.
Not surprisingly, things didn’t look much different to me in the morning. Worse, if anything. Marcie returned to the issue over breakfast, made me retell the story, asked me some questions.
‘You don’t think it was Nelson, do you?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Marcie. ‘I don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘I agree with what Mike said. To conceive that on the spur of the moment is beyond belief. Beyond Nelson, anyway. And he would have known he’d be the main suspect, maybe the only suspect. Why do it?’
‘I know that,’ I said. ‘Give me another explanation.’
‘Why should we assume that the thief ever came into the bar room?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why couldn’t the thief have come from outside, gone into the office, taken the cash and left again?’
‘You’re saying that some stranger, who happens to be passing, stops at the bar on the off chance there’s a pile of cash sitting there unattended, and takes it.’
‘I didn’t say anything about a stranger,’ said Marcie. She looked at me.
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘I get it. Why does everything have to be Franky’s fault?’
‘Because it usually is.’
‘Tell me what you think happened.’
‘I don’t know what happened,’ said Marcie. ‘I’m trying to figure out what might have happened. How late was this?’
‘Quite late.’
‘Was it dark?’
‘Yes.’
‘So the light would have been on in your office.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Was Franky’s car in the parking lot?’
‘It was there when I was looking in the shrubs around midnight. I’ve no idea whether it was there earlier. I don’t think I went outside all day. Besides, I wouldn’t have seen it unless I went behind our house, and I only did that when I was searching the bushes.’
‘Suppose,’ said Marcie, ‘Franky’s been out and comes back just as you’ve gone down to change the barrel. You wouldn’t have heard him. He sees a light in your office and comes in, to have a drink, or to say hello. He puts his head round the office door, sees the cash and takes it. Pure opportunism. It would have taken a couple of minutes or less. Then it’s back to Mr Hammond’s house, hide the cash and sit there looking cool, in case you come calling. Tell me why that couldn’t have happened.’
‘It would have taken some nerve on Franky’s part,’ I said.
‘It took some nerve on the part of whoever did it. I’d back Franky over Nelson when it comes to nerve. Wouldn’t you?’
‘The fact is,’ I said, ‘that you don’t like Franky, so he gets the blame for everything. Why don’t we give him a break for once?’
‘The fact is,’ said Marcie, ‘that you don’t like Nelson much. And we shouldn’t forget the question of motive. I can’t think why Nelson would be mad enough to do such a thing. Whereas it was only a couple of weeks ago that we were asking ourselves how Franky was financing his building works, and wondering who’d been gullible enough to wind up as his banker. Turns out it was us.’
11
Arlene and Davy the second time around was not the same as Arlene and Davy the first time. They’d split up for no more than a fortnight, in the first half of July, but the furniture got rearranged during the interlude. I’ve done the bit about kissing and allowing to be kissed. There was also the issue about leaving and being left, and who was going to do which, and why.
In retrospect, they hadn’t made a ‘let’s get back together’ decision, they’d made a ‘let’s figure out a better time to end it’ decision. By late September, they’d been together the second time for nearly as long as they had been the first time, but it had become casual. There was no intensity to it. Both of them were marking time, waiting for something that wasn’t yet ready to happen. That was how it appeared.
By this time, we had two portraits of Davy. The first, a self-portrait by the artist, was little more than a doodle. This depicted a single man, never married, who had come to town for reasons that remained unclear, and who had since performed a variety of jobs, none of them commensurate with his age or intelligence. This sketch had never convinced.
You’d have to call the second one a self-portrait too. Although it was painted by Arlene, the image was dictated by Davy. We had gleaned it from Arlene at odd moments over the course of several months. This was Davy as he would like to be seen by Arlene, so was no more reliable than the first portrait. It did, however, contain more detail than the first. You could call it impressionistic. An ex-wife had been added to the composition, although no detail on her, or any children. A previous life in Ohio had been supplied. A narrative that involved a messy divorce settlement and assorted other components of a hard-luck story had been woven into the fabric. Exactly what you’d expect, if you were aiming for the sympathy vote.
This portrait was even less convincing. The first was merely unsatisfactory, but it could have been true. At the time, we didn’t know for certain that it wasn’t. The second portra
it told us that the first one was a lie, at least with respect to Davy’s marital history, which was a big respect. So the second one could have been a lie too, as could any subsequent portrait. Soon as you tell one lie, you might as well be telling thousands. Everybody knows this except politicians. Politicians and Davy Brewster.
I had gone fishing for a few days in mid-September, like I do every year. Not far away, but far enough to stay away from home. Most years, it was a healing time. Not this year. I couldn’t help but dwell on how the deaths of Roseanne and Bobby had made life come so close to unravelling, of the effort it had taken, from Marcie and from me, to stop it doing so. We had gathered the yards of string that lay strewn around us. We had patiently teased out the knots, and wound the string tightly around its spindle. Wound it so tightly that nothing could unravel it again.
Since Franky’s return, the ball of string had begun to be picked loose. Whatever world Marcie and I inhabited, it had been our world, and we shared it. Now, plots had become fenced off. There were areas we could no longer inhabit together. This part was my area. That part was Marcie’s. What had once been common land was being parcelled up and sold off to developers. We hadn’t done it. This was Franky’s work, deft and designed to look unplanned. I feared where this might lead, as long as he was around. It was not a happy trip for me. And I didn’t catch many fish.
Soon after I was back, another artist came through the bar room doors and offered a further portrait of Davy.
She was good-looking, in a conventional way. As if God had taken the average of every Caucasian nose in the country and given it to her, then done the same with eyes and mouth and hair and the rest of the female body. God hadn’t left it at the physical attributes; he’d sketched in a personality. He’d given her a look of average intelligence, which turned out to be an understatement. And he’d given her a toothpaste smile, but taken care to balance it with a hint of pain behind the eyes. Quite a lot of pain, in fact. God had overdone that part. Or maybe not. I don’t know how her life had been.
She stood in the centre of the bar and looked around her, rotating slowly like the lantern of a lighthouse, favouring each angle of vision in turn with her beam. She gave out the attitude of someone who didn’t spend much time in bars but wasn’t about to be overawed by the fact. The attitude of someone whose very stare would compel the attendance of whoever she was seeking. In that respect, she failed. The person wasn’t there and refused to materialize for the moment. She approached me as a consolation prize.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Davy Brewster.’ Her long, mid-brown hair fell across her face. Pantone reference 18-1033, I should say.
‘And you are?’ I never admitted to a stranger that I knew a customer.
‘Mary-Jane Brewster.’
Well, I’ll be darned. Here was the face in the other photo frame in Davy’s apartment: the one that had not been smashed up. Davy’s ex had shown up in town, still using his name these two years later. Or that could have been for my benefit, to establish her place in the constellations.
‘He’s not here,’ I said.
‘I can see that. Are you expecting him? I’m told he’s in here most nights.’
‘I don’t know if he’ll be in.’ At this point, I didn’t like her attitude. Surely it’s not possible to be aggressive and obsequious at the same time. Mary-Jane managed it. Later, when I decided her attitude was the best thing about her, I put it down to nerves.
‘You do know him?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But I don’t know whether he’s likely to be in tonight, or tomorrow night or any particular night.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘No idea.’ I expect she knew I was lying.
‘I’ll wait awhile,’ she said. ‘Could I have a Coke, please?’
‘Sure thing.’
I thought she’d take her drink to a vacant table and sit there looking spare. She didn’t. She clambered on to a stool at the bar, Arlene’s stool as it happened, and attempted to engage me in conversation. I was happy to oblige.
‘It’s a nice bar you’ve got here,’ said Mary-Jane.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You live in town?’
‘No.’ She seemed surprised to be asked, which was what I intended. ‘I live in Ohio. I’m visiting.’
‘Oh. You Davy’s sister or something?’
‘No. I’m his wife.’
Not ‘ex-wife’, note: ‘wife’.
‘Didn’t know he was married,’ I said. Quite justified, that remark, in my opinion. Davy had told me he wasn’t married. He should know.
‘You don’t seem to know much,’ said Mary-Jane. She smiled.
‘Almost nothing,’ I said. ‘You’re right. He’s here a lot. We talk about all sorts of things; not too much about our own lives.’
‘Does he come on his own?’
‘Sure. He comes on his own.’
That was a factual answer, and I was entitled to give it, wasn’t I? Davy did come on his own. He came on his own and he left with Arlene. Mary-Jane hadn’t asked who he left with. All right. I wasn’t entitled to say it. I wasn’t entitled to answer the question. Mary-Jane knew that, which was why she asked it. As a test. This was the moment when our conversation became complicit. She wanted information from me and I wanted it from her. We had now signalled our mutual intention to do business. It wasn’t a question of pumping each other. Neither of us needed to do that. We left the faucets ajar and stuff leaked out.
‘Has he been in any fights?’ asked Mary-Jane.
‘He arrived in a fight,’ I said. ‘That was a couple of years ago. He hasn’t been in one since. Not in here, anyhow.’
‘Is he working?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But . . .’
‘. . . but what?’
‘It’s none of my business. Davy is a smart guy and he’s had an education, so I’m surprised at the sort of work he does. I should have thought he could get something better.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s foreman in a warehouse right now. It changes quite often.’
Mary-Jane bit her lip and looked thoughtful. ‘Once upon a time, he was a sales director,’ she said. ‘And now he’s got a job in a warehouse. Does he work in town?’
‘Hereabouts,’ I said. ‘Look, Mrs Brewster, I’d like to help you as much as I can. But I don’t know that Davy wants to see you, so I’m not going to tell you where he works, or where he lives.’
‘I understand that,’ she said, and bit her lip again. ‘Would you say he was happy?’
I should have known the answer to that question. I didn’t. The answer I wanted to give was, ‘He ought to be,’ but then I’d have had to explain why, and I wasn’t going to do that. Both Davy and Arlene should have been happy. I didn’t feel that either of them was. With Arlene, I think it was temperamental. Everything suggested someone who didn’t have the talent for being happy. With Davy, I didn’t know what it was.
‘I think he’s OK,’ I said. ‘Medium happy, I’d say.’
It was hard to tell whether that answer pleased Mary-Jane. I got the impression that she wanted Davy to be happy in principle, but would rather he wasn’t happy at this moment. She minded: that was undeniable.
‘I think I’ll head off,’ she said. ‘I expect I’ll be back quite soon.’
‘If Davy comes in, do you want me to tell him you were here?’
Mary-Jane smiled. ‘I should think you’ll tell him anyway, won’t you?’
‘If I do see him, is there a message you’d like me to pass on?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘there is. You can tell him it’s time he mailed me some more money. The deal was I got some every month. There hasn’t been a cent for weeks. I don’t know who or what he’s spending it on. It’s time some of it came to his family. You can also tell him to stop beating himself up. You can tell him to come home and get on with the life we used to have. If you want, you can tell him . . . No, I’d better say that myself. Finally, you can
tell him that I’m hanging around here until I can say all this and more to his face. The grandparents are looking after the kids for the time being. That’s Davy’s parents, by the way. I’m in no hurry. I’ve got at least a week here and it won’t take me that long to find him. I’m asking you to be the messenger so he can get used to the idea that I’m in town, and won’t lose his temper when he sees me.’
‘Does he usually?’
‘He’s been known to.’
‘Why did he leave?’
‘He can tell you himself, if he wants to. Obviously he doesn’t, or he’d have told you already. Let’s say it was pride. Tons of it. Who’s that?’
‘Who’s who?’
Mary-Jane jerked her head. ‘That woman who’s walked in. The one over there. The tarty one.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That’s Arlene.’
‘Is it just?’ she said.
She knew. I swear she knew. Don’t ask me how, but she did. Come to think of it, how did she know Davy drank in here? Someone had been talking to her. Whoever it was must have told her about Arlene.
Mary-Jane vacated Arlene’s stool, walked toward the door, eyeing its usual occupant on the way. Arlene took her accustomed seat the moment that Mary-Jane had gone.
‘I see you’ve got yourself a new girlfriend.’
‘I should be so lucky.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Mary-Jane.’
The name registered with Arlene straightaway. ‘Not Davy’s wife?’ she said.
‘That’s the one.’ I filled her in on our conversation.
‘Oh, wow,’ said Arlene. ‘That’s incredible. I wish I’d come in earlier. You could have introduced us.’
I stared at her. I expect my jaw dropped. I know Arlene was a little crazy at the best of times, but come on. I decided she was being ironic.
‘Yeah, the two of you could have gone ten rounds right here in the bar.’
‘I don’t think you get it,’ said Arlene. ‘I don’t mind.’