Little Boy Blues

by Mary Jane Maffini

“Oysters. I knew I shouldn’t have had oysters,” he said and dashed back to the nearest Clubhouse can.

  Twenty-Five

  I jumped at the sexy whisper in my ear. The CDs I was holding went flying. I grabbed at them before they fell onto the grass and got trampled. “Sorry,” Ray Deveau chuckled, “I guess I thought you were fearless.”

  “Oh, I’m getting my heart rate up.”

  “Thought you had a date.”

  “Gone home. Apparently I make him sick.” I handed over the money for three CDs, Jonny Lang, John Hammond and Dr. John. Why not? Sooner or later, life might be normal, and I’d want to hear what I’d missed.

  “I see a pattern here,” Deveau said. “So, do you want company?”

  “Sure. Big show’s about to start. Almost everyone will be at the Main Stage. Maybe between us, we’ll see Jimmy in the crowd. Later, I’ll check the campgrounds over the hill.”

  “Save your time. We checked it out today. No sign of him. Left instructions and the photo at the check-in too. But we can try again if you want. Better safe than sorry.”

  “No point. We’re running out of time, and we have plenty to do without going over old ground.”

  “What do you have in mind?” I was starting to like that chuckle.

  • • •

  We hit every one of the late night clubs. It must have been after two by the time we’d burned through Café Toulouse, TRex, The Bytown, Labatt 7 Bar Blues and finally The Rainbow. I was having trouble sorting out who was playing where and when. Good thing Deveau was the designated driver. After our second stop, I’d made the switch from suds to Perrier, or he’d have been the designated thinker too.

  I learned a bit as we went. His wife had died of leukemia three years earlier, he was proud of his daughters aged eleven and thirteen and if they hadn’t been at music camp, he wouldn’t have been in Ottawa. I also learned that he was using his own time to follow up on Jimmy Ferguson.

  To my surprise, I found myself hoping he didn’t have a girlfriend. We handed out posters wherever we went. The late night crowd didn’t seem too troubled by the idea of the missing kid. Until we passed the poster to a couple of denim-clad girls at The Rainbow.

  The short brunette squinted at Jimmy’s image. “Hey look, isn’t he the guy we saw on Dalhousie yesterday?”

  Her friend nodded. “Yeah. That’s him. But I think it was on George near the flower stalls.”

  “Or York maybe.”

  “Let’s have your names and phone numbers,” Deveau said. Must have been very coplike, because the two of them melted through the crowd like ice on a summer sidewalk. “Sorry,” he said. “Why didn’t you yell ‘I’m a cop. Everyone put your hands up. It’s time for the strip search?’” I said.

  Naturally he chuckled.

  “At least I know where to head tomorrow,” I said.

  “Got news for you. It’s tomorrow now.”

  • • •

  Wakey wakey came way too early. I staggered to the bathroom, dislodging Gussie and Mrs. Parnell’s cat. I tried to remember exactly what had happened when Ray Deveau had brought me home. The throb in my temples got in the way of my brain activity.

  The latter part of the night was less than a blur. When had I said goodnight? Had we said goodnight?

  I remembered sitting on the sofa with Gussie emitting something stunningly noxious, and I remembered Deveau suggesting I stay away from Cajun food. His chuckle was the last thing I remembered. Then through the fog, a dim recollection of a chaste goodbye at my door. That was good news. After five years of celibacy, I would have hated to fall off the wagon and not remember it.

  It’s a good thing Mrs. Parnell doesn’t knock. My head might have imploded.

  “Greetings, Ms. MacPhee. Found time for a bit of R and R last night, I see.”

  “Relentless and research.”

  “Excellent. Although, I realize girls will be girls. I was young myself once.”

  I let it drop. “Can you get hold of Father Blaise today? And I’ll need the address of every hostel or shelter that might take in a kid like Jimmy. Concentrate on the market area. A couple of young women last night seemed to recognize him from that part of town.”

  “Consider it done, Ms. MacPhee. I believe it was Wellington who said, ‘Endeavour to find out what you don’t know by what you do’.”

  “Before my time, Mrs. P.” I carefully closed the bathroom door and groped for the Tylenol.

  It was ten-thirty before I turned on the radio to catch the news.

  Top story: The body of an unidentified male had been found on a deserted downtown side street. Police were treating it as a hit and run.

  • • •

  Mombourquette did not answer his phone. Deveau had not called yet. As far as I knew, P. J. was covering the rubber chicken schtick in Montreal. He didn’t answer his phone either or return sympathetic messages. I called everyone I could who might know about the body. I had a good plan to bullshit my way into the morgue when the phone rang.

  Deveau. Not chuckling. “Have you heard?”

  “Jimmy?” I felt a wave of grief for a boy I’d never got to meet.

  “No, thank God.”

  I collapsed onto the sofa, throat aching.

  “But you can stop looking for Reefer Keefer.”

  • • •

  However miserable I felt crawling through the Byward Market in the thirty degree Celsius heat working my way through Mrs. P.’s list, I figured P. J. might have been worse off if he’d trekked off to Montreal to observe Nicholas Southern address disaffected conservatives who would be willing to kick in two hundred and fifty smackers a plate for the privilege of hearing him rant. I hoped the oysters were long gone. Wherever and whatever, he didn’t answer his cellphone, and he still wasn’t returning his calls.

  Of course, when you start combing through the shelters, it gives you a bit of perspective. So my Monday was wasted with no sign of Jimmy anyway. I had a headache. Big frigging deal. I had a home, food, relatives who cared enough to badger me. And I had Mrs. Parnell’s cat and Gussie to keep me company.

  I was shocked to learn how many kids were on the street. Sometimes fleeing savage homes. Sometimes drawn by drugs and bad companions. By the time I’d checked the Youth Shelter, the Mission, the Shepherds of Good Hope and the Food Bank, I was feeling pulled down by the sheer weight of human misery. If I’d run into Mr. Pull Up Your Socks Southern, I would have pulled up his frigging socks all right. Through his ears.

  No one remembered seeing Jimmy. I figured that might be good news, but the people I talked to figured otherwise.

  The last worker said, “Good-looking kid, he wouldn’t last long on the stroll here. Hope you find him soon.”

  One more reason to worry.

  • • •

  It was well after six when I slid into the cool confines of D’Arcy McGee’s pub on Sparks Street. If something political was happening in a watering hole in Ottawa, it would be happening there. I had to admire the irony that the only sitting Canadian politician to be assassinated was celebrated with a trendy drinking spot.

  Honey Redmore, looking gorgeous, was locked in an intense discussion with a tall, good-looking man. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Since his suit must have set him back over a thousand, I took him for one of the seasoned lobbyists who inhabited the place. What was he promoting? Booze? Cigarettes? Chemicals? I guess we’ve all got to make a living, but some of us draw the line.

  I waited until she headed for the ladies room. No place like the ladies room if you burst into tears. “Hi,” I said, following her through the door, “fancy meeting you here.”

  “Oh,” she said, like she’d seen something with six legs sashay across her tablecloth.

  “Crazy weather,” I said.

  “Sure is.” She headed for the stall.

  “That Corona. They say you don’t buy it, you only rent it.”

  “Excuse me.” She reached for the door and probably thought that would end our conver
sation. She thought wrong. “I have a question. I can wait if you’d like.”

  Her nostrils flared. A woman of spirit, the lovely Honey Redmore. “Ask your question.”

  “It has to do with Jimmy Ferguson.”

  “Stop harassing me. Jimmy did nothing. Nor did I.”

  “You didn’t tell me your family called the police. You didn’t tell me your father died chasing Jimmy down the street.”

  She collapsed against the door frame.

  “It’s tough, but the sooner you level with me, the sooner I’ll go away,” I said positively. “Your family insisted on having Jimmy Ferguson charged with breaking and entering. They talked about violence.”

  “If that’s true, which I sincerely doubt, then my family was mistaken.”

  “The Fergusons, an admittedly biased source, claim the police questioned Jimmy for hours, without a relative present, because of pressure.”

  The pretty chin was wobbling now.

  “If Jimmy did nothing, why would your father chase him? If he believed Jimmy assaulted you, why wouldn’t he simply call the Fergusons? They’d have been over in a shot.”

  She stared at the floor and swallowed.

  “I realize we’re talking about your father’s death, but now we are dealing with another potential tragedy. Jimmy Ferguson will be dead soon. You need to tell me: Why did your father chase Jimmy?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You’re sticking to that story? Then you haven’t seen the end of me.”

  That must have been a tough prospect, because she elbowed me in the ribs and ducked out the door.

  “Look,” I said when I had cornered her again. “Please tell me what you suspect. Something happened, and I know it’s relevant. Make it easy on yourself.”

  I turned as the big guy in the million dollar suit with matching face joined us. The face was not smiling.

  “Something wrong here?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You look upset, Hon.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Everything’s hunky dory,” I said.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I didn’t like the look he gave me.

  “We’re fine. We’d like a little privacy here,” I said. “No, we wouldn’t,” Honey said.

  “I only need a minute.”

  “I do not want to talk to you,” Honey said.

  Loud enough, I thought. A few heads turned our way. The big guy moved off. I decided to press my advantage. “A misunderstanding with tragic consequences, but what triggered it? Which reminds me, are you aware that Reefer Keefer died last night?”

  She looked startled. “That’s dreadful. But I don’t see a connection.”

  “Oh, there’s a connection, and I’ll find out what it is.”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and whipped around to tell the million-dollar man to go to hell. I found myself nose to chest with someone who might have been a bouncer.

  “I’ve been thrown out of far better places than this,” I said as he frog-marched me through the door and deposited me on Sparks Street. The D’Arcy McGee is such a great pub. It was too bad I wouldn’t be allowed back.

  • • •

  “Some would say it serves you right, Ms. MacPhee.”

  “Not to my face they’d better not.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I don’t really have much choice.”

  “One does what one must.” She followed that up with a solid serving of Harvey’s Bristol Cream in my glass.

  “Exactly. And it’s impossible to dig around the death of a parent without causing some discomfort.”

  “Are you certain, Ms. MacPhee, there’s something to dig for? Surely, the sudden loss of a father would cause anyone to choke up.”

  “Possibly. But she didn’t really choke up originally. She was very open. She told me Jimmy Ferguson had not assaulted her. She was quite emphatic. So what did he do? Did one of his friends do something? Maybe Jimmy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “So you are asking yourself if anything really happened.”

  “Something happened all right. I figure Honey Redmore is protecting someone.”

  “From you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Protecting Jimmy perhaps.”

  “I believe she wants to protect Jimmy from a false accusation. But that doesn’t explain it. The police didn’t press charges against Jimmy. That can only mean they had no evidence.”

  “I suppose that’s fair enough,” Mrs. Parnell said.

  “I’d agree with you as a rule. It’s intended to protect the young person, but here it’s doing anything but.”

  “I am surprised, Ms. MacPhee, that Sergeant Deveau hasn’t spilled the beans. Considering his late night visit.”

  Does the woman miss nothing? “He’s doing the proper thing, legally and ethically. People get slapped with charges if they violate the confidentiality provision. Rightly so. But it’s goddam inconvenient right now.”

  “Not the sort of thing that holds you back as a rule, is it?”

  “Of course, it is. I am very law-abiding. Don’t bother to snort like that, Mrs. P. Anyway, there has to be something else at work in that weird story. Ask yourself, if your father died because of something someone did, why would you want to protect that person?”

  “I take your point,” Mrs. Parnell said.

  “So who would you want to protect?”

  “You mentioned Jimmy’s friends.”

  “Right. Let’s look at them. Brandon couldn’t get around in his wheelchair, and Thomas is so fragile, I can’t imagine it.”

  “What about Reefer Keefer?”

  “Better. I don’t think Honey would go out on a limb to protect him. She didn’t react much when I told her he was dead. But she certainly got upset about Jimmy.”

  “Speaks well of her.”

  “Let’s think about it. Who in your experience would someone want to protect?”

  “In my experience? A colleague or a superior officer,” Mrs. Parnell said.

  I sat up straight. “You know something? I think that’s it.”

  “A superior officer? But Honey was a civilian. Or have I missed something?”

  “We all have superiors. Even civilians. Even adolescents. Teachers. Coaches.”

  “Hmm. Let’s follow up. And if something happened with someone like that, it might explain why the family decided to move so quickly after the father’s death. To get her away from whomever.”

  “Yep. Makes sense. There would have been rumours. Maybe I can get one of the Ferguson girls to find out what’s what. Vince is worse than useless.”

  “Let me call Loretta and Donald Donnie,” Mrs. P. said. “I’ll check with the Ferguson girls too, unless you want to. They’ll probably be arriving at your sister’s soon. Young Ferguson tells me they had quite a full day combing the city.”

  On my way out the door, I said, “No Fergusons for me tonight. I feel like death, and I haven’t fed your cat.”

  “Or walked your dog,” she said.

  “Wait a minute. I thought of something.”

  “What is it, Ms. MacPhee?”

  “It’s another reason to talk to Father Blaise. He’s done a lot of work with the youth club. Even though the Redmores aren’t Catholic, he probably knew all these kids.”

  Mrs. Parnell’s forehead creased. “He hasn’t returned any of the messages I left at St. Paul’s.”

  I checked my watch. “Too late tonight, but I’ll flush him out tomorrow.”

  I walked Gussie before I took my third shower of the day. I opened a tin of Miss Meow for Mrs. Parnell’s cat. I found some leftovers for my dinner. Gussie looked so pathetic I put the dish on the floor. I scrounged some peanut butter and crackers. The three of us shared a companionable meal while my hair dried.

  Twenty-Six

  At ten o’clock that evening, Ray Deveau showed up looking beat, but wearing clean chinos and a pale blue short-sleeved shirt, pressed. He
looked freshly showered and shaved. I noticed a hint of lime aftershave. It offset the dark smudges under his eyes.

  Over a cold beer on my sixteenth floor balcony, watching the Ottawa river glitter in the moonlight, I learned more about Reefer Keefer’s fate.

  “Hit and run again,” Deveau said. “Ottawa guys are keeping the details quiet.”

  “Does it sound like the one in Sydney?”

  “Yup. They’ve found the car. Stolen shortly before.”

  “That tells us something.”

  “What?”

  “First of all, logic says it’s the same killer.”

  “Probably right.”

  “It follows that the same person was in Sydney on July 1st and in Ottawa last night. Correct?”

  “Narrows it down to a hell of a lot of people. Dozens at least.”

  “I doubt dozens of people had some close connection with everyone in this case.”

  “That’s true. There’s me, of course.”

  “Cute. What kind of person would use a car as a weapon? A career criminal? A hit person?”

  Deveau narrowed his eyes. “A coward. A bully.”

  “That’s what I think. Sorry, but it seems to leave you out of the equation.”

  “What a relief. By the way, did I tell you I just learned they found the car that killed Greg Hornyk?”

  “Really? Whose car?”

  “Belonged to another tourist. Stolen downtown. They found it abandoned in the airport parking lot. No prints, no nothing. They’re looking for anyone who saw it dropped off. So far, no luck.”

  “No surprise,” I said. “But on the same topic, you must have had a lot of dealings with Reefer over the years.”

  “Yeah. He was one of life’s great losers. But he didn’t deserve to die like that. It shook me up to identify the body. I never get used to the morgue.”

  I figured that was a good thing. Somehow, during our conversation our resin chairs seemed to have drifted closer together. Our knees were now touching, and neither of us jumped away. I tried not to let that get in my way.

  “One question, Ray. Bear with me. It’s relevant.”

  “Ask away.”

  “The Redmores. Now when Jimmy was accused of whatever it was he was accused of that you can’t talk about because of the YOA …”