Ice on the Grapevine

by R. E. Donald

  “Isn’t much like your truck, is it?” said Russell, making no move to leave.

  “This is a Kenworth. Mine’s a Freightliner. Older, too.”

  “Yours just looks like a truck with a blue sardine can tacked on the back of it.” The detective was caressing his tie between a thumb and forefinger. “Can’t be too comfortable.”

  “It’s adequate,” said Hunter. He was tempted to ask the detective why he cared, but instead he asked, “When is the dog supposed to get here?”

  Russell looked at his watch, but didn’t answer. Hunter decided to take the lead, and headed out the door.

  “You like being a truck driver?” Russell asked.

  “Not at the moment.” Hunter stepped down from the cab, saying over his shoulder, “But you like being a detective.”

  “Yes,” said Russell. “Indeed I do.” He made sure the Nillsons’ truck was locked, then turned to Hunter with a faint wry smile. “And I’ve got to believe that any man who would give up being a detective for a job whose greatest challenge involved staying between the lines on the Interstate must have had a good reason.” He tossed the keys in the air and caught them again.

  Hunter said nothing.

  “The dog should be here soon.” Russell slipped the keys into his pocket and headed back to his car. “Have a nice trip,” he called out as Hunter watched him drive away.

  A few minutes after Hunter had pulled his tractor-trailer away from the loading dock and fastened the trailer’s doors with a padlock, an L.A. County Sheriff’s car pulled up. An attractive, big boned African-American woman in uniform stepped out. She opened the car’s back door and stooped inside. When she turned around, cradled inside her arms was a mop of golden hair with two little black eyes, attentive ears and a glistening nose. The policewoman cuddled the little bundle, bending over it and making very unpolicewomanly kissing sounds. A tiny quick tongue shot out and licked her chin. “My little sweetheart,” she crooned. “Does that bad man want to take you away from me? Huh?”

  “So, just what do we have here?” asked Hunter, stepping forward.

  The woman pretended to pull Peaches away, then swung back and offered the bundle up to Hunter with a smile that lit up her face like a halogen beam. “You take good care of this little punkin’,” she said, and deposited the dog in Hunter’s arms.

  The mop of golden hair felt as light as a kitten. Hunter held it at arm’s length so he could see what it was. “A Pomeranian?” he asked the woman.

  She shrugged. “Whatever he is, he’s a little cutie. Aren’t you, sweetie pie?”

  “Is there a cage?” asked Hunter.

  The woman shook her head, then reached inside her car. “Just this stuff,” she said, holding open an Albertson’s bag. They both peered inside. It contained a retractable leash, a brush, a cardboard folder with the name and address of a veterinarian on it, a double dog food dish, and a small bag of kibble. “And this.” She handed the bag to Hunter, and retrieved a folded blanket from the back seat. “Where you takin’ the little guy?”

  “Vancouver,” said Hunter. “He’s going to stay with a friend of his owners’ for a while. She’s got a Pomeranian herself,” said Hunter with a frown, “or whatever. This dog’s a lot smaller than hers unless maybe he’s just a puppy.” He turned Peaches this way and that until the dog began to squirm. “He doesn’t have a puppy face, though, does he?”

  The woman shook her head. “He looks all growed up to me,” she said, tickling the dog under the chin. “You’re a big little dog, aren’t you, sweetie? Yes, you are.”

  “I wonder if he’s … uh … done his business lately?” Hunter looked hopefully at the policewoman. She just smiled and shrugged. “I guess I’ll take him for a walk before we leave then,” said Hunter, rummaging in the Albertson’s bag for the leash.

  “You got to scoop it here,” warned the policewoman. “It’s the law,” she added with her beautiful smile.

  “Right,” said Hunter. He could hardly wait.

  Russell Kupka had been right when he called Hunter’s sleeper unit a blue sardine can. It was a basic economy model, just a tin box with a sofa-sized bunk and some storage space, bolted to the rear wall of the Freightliner’s cab as an afterthought. He could access the sleeper from his cab, but there was a heavy curtain with snaps that could seal that entrance, and a small outside door in the wall of the box. It wasn’t fancy, but it served his needs.

  Peaches didn’t like it.

  For safety’s sake, Hunter had decided that the best place for Peaches was in the sleeper box. He fastened the snaps to seal the entrance to the cab, put some water – hopefully not enough to spill – and kibble in Peaches’ dish on the floor, and arranged his doggie blanket on the bunk, near the foot of the mattress. Then he sat on the bunk and patted the blanket. “Here, boy. Here, Peaches,” he called, encouraging the dog with a few little kissing sounds. “Here, boy.” The little eyes glittered up at him from the blond mop as it circled a spot on the floor for a few excited seconds, then Peaches jumped. Ignoring the blanket, the dog perched itself on Hunter’s thighs and tried to lick his face.

  “Good boy,” said Hunter. At least the dog could jump as high as the bunk. He lifted the dog off his lap and placed it squarely in the center of the blanket. “There you go. Lie down.” He patted the blanket again. “Lie down.”

  Peaches wagged his tail, then scampered off the blanket and into Hunter’s lap, its pink tongue connecting with Hunter’s lips. Hunter turned his face away and wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then grabbed the dog again. “Stay,” he said, plunking the wriggling body back onto the blanket. “Lie down.” This time he applied some gentle pressure on the dog’s back, until the rear legs folded underneath the mop and the dog was in a sitting position. “Stay,” repeated Hunter, releasing the pressure. It didn’t work. As Peaches scampered for his lap again, Hunter leaped to his feet, banging his head in the process. “Ouch,” he said, rubbing his skull. This wasn’t going to work.

  He finally had to resort to slamming the sleeper door in the dog’s face. That was followed by frantic yapping and a flurry of scrabbling at the door panel. Hunter winced, but decided to leave it at that. The dog will calm down, he thought to himself. Once they were underway, the dog would be lulled to sleep by the motion of the truck.

  This was not the case. Although the little dog gave up scratching and whining at the heavy curtain after about half an hour, on opening the door a few hours later at Buttonwillow when he stopped for dinner, Hunter discovered the sleeper was a shambles. Kibble and water were spread across the floor, with Hunter’s clean clothes and pillow strewn on top of the mess. Hunter sighed, and clipped the leash to the dog’s collar. “Let’s go, Peaches,” he said, and took the dog for a walk in the semi-darkness around the perimeter of the truck stop parking lot.

  After a late dinner, and after cleaning up the mess in his sleeper, Hunter decided to take a chance on keeping Peaches in the cab. The little dog gave the inside of the cab a once over with his nose, then leapt lightly to the passenger seat and perched there with his ears pricked forward and his nose in the air. He looked over at Hunter once or twice as if to say, What’re you waiting for? Let’s get this rig on the road!

  “I’ll be damned,” said Hunter.

  Once they were back on the highway and moving at a steady speed, the dog stood up, tags clinking, made two or three tight circles, and curled up on the passenger seat with his nose to his tail, keeping one black eye on the driver. Hunter smiled. So tonight he had company, a fluffy hump dimly illuminated by the dashboard dials. Would that help to curb the nocturnal wanderings of his mind?

  “What do you say, Peaches? Where’ll we stop for the night? Santa Nella?” Hunter figured on driving until one o’clock or so, then bedding down for about seven hours and starting the day with a shower and a good breakfast before he got back on the road. By law, he was allowed no more than ten hours of driving at a time, alternating with a minimum of eight hours off duty. Whenever possib
le, he preferred to do most of his driving during daylight hours, in spite of the fact that traffic was better at night. Hunter’s nights on the highway were haunted.

  Regrets. What ifs. Memories of the missed and the lost and the restless dead. In the darkened interior of the cab, unwanted thoughts swirled around his mind like hornets, relentless and indestructible. Nothing outside to see but headlights, taillights, and the white lines that guided his wheels, themselves not distractions but instead, reproachful and resentful eyes, incessant pinpricks of guilt. Thinking black thoughts had become an impossible habit to break, but maybe tonight…

  Maybe tonight he wouldn’t dwell on the death of the best friend he’d ever had, and could ever hope to have. Maybe tonight he wouldn’t dwell on the failure of his marriage, and the estrangement that seemed to be growing between himself and his daughters, in spite of his efforts to be closer to them. Maybe tonight he wouldn’t dwell on the shame he still felt for having to leave his chosen career. He tried to steer his mind in other directions.

  Ray and Sharon Nillson. Why wouldn’t they admit to finding the frozen corpse on their trailer? The two of them sincerely loved each other, there was no doubt in Hunter’s mind. He wondered when he and his ex-wife Christine had lost that closeness, that feeling their lives fit so closely together they were almost one life. It had dwindled gradually over the years, he guessed. The kids. His job. The arguments about his long hours, and the time he spent with Ken in the bar after work, trying to talk Ken out of his depressions. It had dwindled away until it was gone, that closeness between him and Christine, and she had asked him to leave. Hunter had thrown himself into his work then, withdrawn even from Ken, his best friend, his soul mate in the police force. So he hadn’t been there for Ken, when Ken needed a friend most.

  Hunter realized that he was doing it again. “Damn!” he slammed the steering wheel with his fist, then reached for his radio. He’d find a news show, talk show, anything. “Damn it, chief!” he said to Peaches. “Why don’t you say something? Why don’t you tell me who that man was, the one that froze to death in Ray and Sharon’s trailer?’

  Hunter reached over and tousled its furry head, but the little dog only sighed.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  Teresa Jagpal called her supervisor at work, said she'd be late. Last night, after drinking two glasses of wine for courage, she had finally phoned the police and told them she wanted to report someone missing. "You'll have to come down and make the report in person," the man on the phone had said. Teresa had another glass of wine then, and resolved to do it in the morning. She couldn't leave it another day. Another day, and Greg would have been gone a week.

  Teresa drove her Tercel into the parking lot behind the RCMP building. She pulled into a parking spot marked Visitors, let her car idle for about fifteen seconds, then backed out again. She exited the parking lot, turning left onto Deer Lake Avenue, and pulled into the nearly empty lot at the Shadboldt Theatre, where she found an isolated parking spot and turned off the ignition. What if Greg had just come home? What if he had just left a message on her answering machine? What if all this had just been a bad dream?

  She locked her car and walked across the parking lot, her shoulder bag flapping against her hipbone. Inside the building she found a pay phone and dropped in her quarter. On the third ring, the phone was picked up. Teresa's breath stuck in her throat.

  "Yeah?" It was Hellen's voice, thick with sleep.

  Teresa hesitated. Since Hellen had moved back in, they didn't see each other much during the week, she and Hellen. Hellen's hours were more like Greg's. Hellen worked afternoon shift, often stayed up late after she got home, working on her sketches with her earphones on.

  "Hello?" said Hellen. "Greg?"

  At the mention of Greg's name, Teresa's stomach did a flip-flop. "No, Hellen. It's me."

  "Jesus, Jag! Why didn't you say something?!"

  Teresa could still think of nothing to say. She rolled the phone cord between her fingers, debated whether to just hang up.

  "Jag? Are you all right?"

  "Do you know where Greg is?" Teresa finally said. "Have you talked to him?"

  There were a few seconds of silence. "Jag? Are you all right? Why are you asking me about Greg? You'd know where he is better than I would."

  Teresa took a deep breath. Maybe telling Hellen about it would make it easier to talk to the police. "I haven't seen Greg since last Friday morning. I haven't seen him and he hasn't called. I don't know what to do." An old woman in a jogging suit, carrying a book bag, walked past, and Teresa lowered her voice, moved in closer to the phone. "I'm... I'm going to go see the police." Her voice shivered like a bad connection.

  "What about the studio? Have you called the studio?" asked Hellen.

  Of course she'd called the studio. "I talked to Max. Greg hasn't been to the studio since Friday either."

  "But the police? Why the police? Do you think something's happened to Greg?" Hellen sounded sharper now, wide awake.

  "I don't know what to think. I just know that he hasn't come home and he hasn't called. What else can I do?" It was a relief, such a relief, to finally talk to someone else about it, that Teresa was overcome by a confused rush of emotion and started to sob. "Where could he be, Hellen?"

  "Look, Jag. There's no need to think the worst. Maybe he just needed some space. Maybe he got started one night and couldn't stop, you know?"

  Teresa shook her head, got her voice under control. "No, I don't know." Teresa was the first one to admit that she was as naive as a six year old compared to Greg and Hellen and their friends. There were some things that she just didn't have in common with them.

  "A binge. You know what a binge is, don't you?" Hellen's voice sounded almost exasperated and Teresa wondered why she had ever considered this woman her best friend.

  "Greg's never been on a binge," Teresa said, now impatient to get off the phone.

  "There's always a first time," said Hellen.

  "But almost a week, Hellen? Last time I saw him was Friday morning, when I left for work." She paused briefly, then said, "When did you see him last? Hellen? When did you see him last?"

  "I'm trying to think." There was a short pause, and a light thumping sound, as if Hellen were tapping the phone with her finger. "Before that," she said. "Maybe it was Thursday night, after he got home from his gig."

  Teresa swallowed hard. "What... what did you talk about?" she asked.

  "I don't know." Hellen's breath whooshed into the phone, as if she'd yawned. "I don't remember. Nothing. You know, maybe I made him a sandwich or something. He probably talked about his gig."

  "Did he talk about..." Teresa took a deep breath, let it out again. "Did he talk about leaving me?"

  "Jag. What the hell has gotten into you?" said Hellen, but that didn't answer Teresa's question.

  "I gotta go," said Teresa, and hung up the phone.

  Twenty-five minutes later, she was sitting across the desk from a uniformed policeman in a little office at the Burnaby RCMP detachment. He'd asked her all kinds of questions about Greg, like how long they'd been together, whether they fought much, whether he'd ever gone away without telling her before. "My friend says he might be on a binge," said Teresa, twisting her fingers in the strap of her purse.

  "Has he ever done that before?" The RCMP officer's name was Tom Fong, but he looked only half Oriental. He didn't look any older than Teresa, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six.

  Teresa shook her head.

  "Is your husband a heavy drinker? Does he take drugs, that you know of?" The officer tapped his pencil on the paper, full of nervous energy, like Greg usually was.

  "My husband? Greg and I aren't married." She’d called him her boyfriend.

  Officer Fong glanced down at the form in front of him. "Sorry, Ms. Jagpal, if that made you uncomfortable. You do realize, though, that since you've lived together for more than two years, that makes you man and wife, by common law."

  Teresa blinked i
n surprise, then nodded slowly. Her mother and father would be upset if they found out, her brothers angry. “We were only roommates,” she would have to say, and hope that they would believe her. Being roommates with a man was bad enough.

  "Does he drink?" repeated the officer, studying the photograph she'd given him. It was one of Greg's eight by ten glossies, the ones they put up in bars when he did a solo gig. She thought he looked like a rock star, resting his cheek against the neck of his guitar and gazing downwards and a little to the right, so his long dark eyelashes stood out against his skin.

  "Greg drinks beer sometimes, and sometimes he does drugs, I guess. But not very much. I've only seen him get drunk, really, once or twice, at parties." And just a few weeks ago, she thought, he and Hellen got into a bottle of ouzo after Greg got back from his gig. For hours, Teresa lay in bed listening to them talk and laugh, although she couldn't make out the words, and decided that she and Greg should find a new place to live now that Hellen had moved back in. Greg finally crawled into Teresa's bed at three in the morning, stinking of licorice and wanting to make love. No. Not make love. He'd said, I want to fuck you. Fuck me, baby. And Teresa just lay there while he grunted on top of her, grunted and sweated and bruised her arms with his clumsiness. The tears had run down her cheeks and into her ears, but he'd been too drunk to know, or maybe to care.

  "Anything else?" asked the officer. "Anything else you want to add that might help us to locate him?"

  Teresa shook her head. Greg had secrets that he didn't share with her. She thought maybe one day he would, but so far that day hadn't come. She got up to leave, hiking her purse strap over her shoulder.

  "Wait here just a minute, please, Ms. Jagpal. I'll just run through our recent John Doe files and be right back." He took the form and the photo and left the room.