by R. E. Donald
Hunter would have forgotten his ex-wife's birthday if the girls hadn't reminded him. It had been five years since Chris had asked him for a divorce, and he had long since stopped thinking of her as his wife. She was the mother of his daughters, and nothing more. But as he dressed for the barbecue on Sunday, choosing his least-old shirt and a pair of chinos that he never wore on the road, he couldn't help wondering why he'd been invited specifically on her birthday, and it surprised him to feel a flutter of nervousness about seeing her. He wondered again if the girls were trying to get them back together again. At the beer and wine store at Greystone Mall, he chose a bottle of Pouilly Fuissé. It was stupidly expensive, but it had been her favorite wine. And on impulse, he bought flowers at the IGA, a mixed bouquet with freesias.
Hunter's ex-wife and daughters lived in a three-bedroom townhouse across the street from Burnaby Mountain Golf Course. He found a parking spot on the street, and sat for a moment in the car, collecting his thoughts, then started up the sidewalk carrying the flowers and wine. He realized that the chinos were uncomfortably tight at the waist, and it made him angry with himself. He should make the effort to get more exercise. Sitting in a truck for days on end could be deadly for a man who didn't keep active during his hours off. He climbed the stairs to their second floor entrance and rang the doorbell.
"Dad! I knew you'd be on time!" Lesley stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He inhaled the scent of her hair, like green apples. She was wearing shorts and what looked like a sleeveless man's undershirt over a bathing suit top. She had tiny gold chains around her wrist and ankle, and he thought she was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. "Are these for Mom?" she said in a whisper, examining the flowers, and she smiled.
Hunter followed Lesley into the living room, and Janice came in from the sundeck, crossing the carpet to give him a hug. "Hi, Dad," she said. "I'm sure glad you came." She was wearing a simple lime green shift, her long hair in a lopsided ponytail above one ear. Hunter thought she could be a model. "Can I talk to you, like, in private?"
"Wait until your father's had time to sit down and have a beer." Chris appeared over Janice's shoulder. "Hello, Hunter. Nice to see you," she said with a smile.
"Happy birthday," said Hunter, holding out the bouquet. He wondered briefly if he should kiss her cheek, but it seemed too awkward, with Janice right there. "Twenty nine, isn't it?" he said, deadpan.
"Yeah, right, Dad," said Lesley. "You knocked her up when she was nine."
Chris laughed, and Hunter looked at the floor, uncomfortable but not wanting to show it. Perhaps he wasn't around the girls enough. He wasn't used to hearing them speak like that.
"Would you put these in water, hon'." Chris handed the flowers to Lesley. "And get your father a beer." She turned to Hunter, and he held out the wine, still inside its brown paper bag. "Wine! Thanks," she said, and "Here, Janice, put this in the fridge." She didn't even look inside the bag. "Come outside, Hunter. There's someone I want you to meet."
A man stood up at their approach. He had a tumbler with what looked like scotch and soda in his left hand, and he offered Hunter his right. "Lance Macauley," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."
"Lance the lawyer," said Lesley from behind Hunter's back. Chris shot her a wicked look, then turned to Hunter with a smile.
"Lance is in real estate law, of course. I met him through work, as you probably guessed." Chris used her friendly, professional voice, making an effort to sound relaxed but Hunter knew her too well to be fooled. “Our firm is selling suites in a big Brantford Group development, and Lance is their lawyer.”
"I fell in love with her voice on the phone," said Lance with a grin. "Sit down, make yourself comfortable. What'll you have? Oh, here's Janice with a beer. Is that okay?"
"Yes," said Hunter, deliberately taking the furthest chair from this unexpected host. Why hadn't the girls warned him? he asked himself, but he already knew why. If they'd told him about Lance the lawyer, he wouldn't have come. He made himself engage in polite small talk, which was not his forte. Lance carried the lion's share of the conversation.
Chris sat on the edge of her chair, sipping on a glass of white wine a little more frequently than she used to. Hunter felt sorry for her. "Janice, you wanted to talk to me?" he said at the first reasonable opportunity, and Janice led him into the kitchen.
She pulled something out from underneath the telephone and handed it to him with a big grin on her face. It was a glossy brochure advertising the Isuzu Trooper. "What do you think?" she said, pointing to a photograph of a white vehicle with zigzags of color on its side. "Isn't it just perfect for me?"
He smiled. "Perfect," he said. "You're going to buy it?"
"Well," she said, looking at the ceiling and rocking her shoulders back and forth, "The dealer has a used one, just thirty thousand kilometers on it, and I'd like to buy it, but..."
"But?"
"I don't have enough money for the down payment." She looked at him expectantly, batting her eyelashes, her lips in a tight little smile.
He nodded. "I see." What he saw was that his oldest daughter was asking him for money, and he wasn't even sure he could make the payment on his truck this month. "I guess your mom can't make you a loan?"
She shook her head. "Lance said he'd lend it to me, but I'd rather get it from you."
Hunter hesitated. How could he come up with the kind of money she'd need?
"Mom said I should take Lance up on his offer. She said, For God's sake, your father won't have that kind of money. He's just a truck driver. She's turning into such a snob." Janice shook her head in disgust. "But I don't want Lance's money, Dad. It just doesn't feel right to me."
"Good," he said. "How much do you need?"
Hunter excused himself even before the girls brought out the birthday cake. He told them there was something he had to do, which was true. He still had three bars to visit, looking for information on the dead musician. Lance the lawyer had barbecued the ribs and chicken, never missing a chance to pat Chris on the buttocks or grab her round the waist as she passed. Chris was delighted with the Pouilly Fuissé and drank two glasses within half an hour, while Lance polished off the rest of the bottle. To Hunter's disgust, Lance decided to show him to the door.
"Great meeting you, Hunter," said Lance. "You've got great taste in women, judging by your ex. Chris is a great gal, a real pleasure to do business with, and vice versa, if you know what I mean." And he slapped Hunter on the back.
Hunter stopped dead, then slowly turned around to face the man, aware of the look of horror on Chris' face, but too angry to care. "Look here, chief," he said in a tight, low voice, raising a hand in front of his chest, like a cobra. "If Christine lets you swat her with your clumsy paws, that's her business. But don't you ever - EVER - touch me again."
Lance took a step backwards. "Hey, buddy. Take it easy, pal. I was just being friendly." He bumped into Chris, who was glaring at Hunter from behind his shoulder, and looked from side to side as if he were trapped.
"Christ, Hunter! Don't be such a tightass!" said Chris. "Why don't you consider someone else's feelings, for a change."
"Leave him alone, Mom."
"Yeah, leave him alone," said Lesley.
"Happy birthday, Chris," said Hunter, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.
Of the bars Greg Williams had worked in the past few months, the closest to home was the Blackburn Pub in east Burnaby, and Hunter arrived there just after ten o'clock on Sunday night. Through the smoke, Hunter could see a girl in a leopard skin leotard singing into the gray ball of a microphone, and behind her a long-haired youth playing electric guitar. He made his way up to the bar and asked to see the manager.
"Not here," said the bartender.
"When will he be back?"
The young man shrugged, fingering a small gold hoop in his ear. "What do you need him for? Maybe Pat can help."
"Pat?"
"Yeah." A waitress signalled him from farther down the bar. "Han
g on," he said, and left Hunter standing there while he beered up four pint glasses and squirted bar cola into a shot of whiskey. "Hey, Pat!" he hollered across the room, grabbing two wine glasses from a rack over his head. "Pat! Some guy here wants to talk to Clifford."
Pat had lots of wavy, almost kinky, hair, auburn with hints of gold, tied loosely in a scarf that seemed to be slipping down her back. She had earrings that looked like long black raindrops, and was wearing a tight black skirt and a slinky purple blouse. "Can I help you?" she said, looking him up and down. "You're obviously not here for the open mike," she added, jerking her head in the direction of the leopard skin leotard.
Hunter smiled. There was an openness about her that he liked. "You can help me if you know this man," he said, producing Williams' picture. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the music.
"Sure. That's Greg Williams. He was playing here..." She looked up at the ceiling with a frown. "Shit! My life's a blur. I guess it was the week before last. What about him?" A big man heading for the bar jostled her arm, and she stuck an elbow in his ribs. "Watch it, Bub! C'mon," she said to Hunter. "Let's go talk in the office."
Hunter followed her through a door into a dark hallway, then into a small office. Pat sank into the big armchair behind the desk, kicked off her shoes. There was nowhere for Hunter to sit. "So, what's this all about?"
"Greg Williams' body was found in California a few days ago. We're trying to find out how he got there..."
"Body? Greg's dead?" Her eyes widened, and she left her mouth open.
Hunter nodded. "He might have been murdered."
"So Greg's dead." She shook her head. "Poor bastard. What happened?"
"When did you see him last?"
"After his last gig. Saturday night." She consulted a calendar on her desk. "I guess it was the eighth."
"Did you notice him talking to anybody in particular, arguing maybe?"
Pat ran a thumb up and down her chin. "God! Do you know what you're asking!?" She laughed. "I can't even remember what happened twenty minutes ago, let alone two weeks!"
"Take your time," said Hunter.
"Let's see." She reached behind her head, frowning, and pulled the scarf out of her hair. It spread out across her shoulders like a waterfall. "I remember he spent a while talking to some guy in a booth over by the stage. That was unusual. It's usually the girls who want to talk to... uh, wanted to talk to Greg. He was one of those sensitive looking guys all the girls want to take care of, you know? Puppy dog eyes? So I remember the guy, sort of. He looked pretty clean cut, almost like a cop. No offense. I like cops." She smiled, then stopped, narrowed her eyes. "You are a cop, aren't you?"
Hunter shook his head.
"Then why am I talking to you? Why are you asking these questions? You made me think you were a cop."
Hunter pulled one of Al's cards out of his chest pocket, and she stood up, met him halfway to take it. "I'm assisting the RCMP in their investigation," he said, "sort of like a freelance investigator."
She nodded. "Okay then. I can phone this guy and check you out if I want, right?"
"Yes."
"Okay." She ran the corner of Al's card back and forth across her lower lip. "So this guy I saw talking to Greg looked almost like a cop."
"Can you describe him?"
"Uh... pretty big, I think. I mean, tall and muscular. Not like you." She smiled. "No offense, but you're more... uh... compact. He was more of a jock. Not quite so... uh... tidy looking."
He smiled, just a half smile. "Hair color?"
She reached up and touched his hair, the scarf dangling from her fingers. The scent reminded Hunter of the freesias in his ex-wife's bouquet. "Light brown, verging on blond, sort of like yours."
Hunter ran his hand across his hair, nudging hers away. "Would you recognize him again?"
She smiled and tamed her hair with the scarf again before answering, watching Hunter watching her, almost daring him to look at the slinky blouse tightening across her breasts. He kept his eyes on her face. "Would I recognize him? I don't know if I would. He looked like a lot of guys."
"Were they arguing?"
"Not while I was watching." She shook her head. Her raindrop earrings brushed her jaw. Then she suddenly frowned, stabbed the air with a finger. "Wait!" she said. "I do remember something about that night. There was a fight in the parking lot. The bouncers said a guy got beat up."
"Was Greg involved?"
"No. He was on at the time. He'd been talking to that guy I told you about on his break, then he went back on stage, and half way through his set my bouncers disappeared. I went out to see what they were up to, and they said there'd been a fight. Couldn't have lasted very long, though. They'd all driven away by the time I got there."
"Any of those bouncers here tonight?"
She shook her head. "No. It's just part timers on Sunday. But, you know, I remember something else happened. A woman who used to work here, waited tables for the last few years, went up to the stage just as Greg announced his break. She and Greg were standing there talking, then all of a sudden she stormed out of here, practically ran somebody down at the door. He followed her out."
"You know her name and how I can get in touch with her?" asked Hunter.
"Might be hard to get hold of her," said Pat. "And I don't know her name now, but it used to be MacNeil."
"She changed her name?"
"Yeah," said Pat. "Sharon married a trucker."
CHAPTER
TEN
Hunter turned down his landlord's suggestion for a quick nine holes at Gleneagles Golf Course with a sincere "Next time, I promise," and was sitting in Al Kowalski's office by ten o'clock on Monday morning.
"Did she ID the photo?"
Hunter sighed, grim faced. "Yes," he said. "Ray's, too. Seems the Blackburn Pub is where he and Sharon met."
Al Kowalski shrugged. There was something a little different about him today, but Hunter couldn't quite put his finger on it. Hunter tried to remember if Al had worn a mustache, or maybe he'd just had a haircut. "You knew when you started this that the answers might not be what you wanted to hear," said Al, handing him a mug with the RCMP crest embossed on one side.
Hunter took a swallow of coffee. He didn't consider what he'd found out at the Blackburn to be proof of Sharon's guilt, but he had to admit it didn't look good. It meant that she and Ray were lying about more than just finding the body. "How did you make out with the band?"
Al snorted. "You know," he said, "if anybody had told me twenty five years ago when I was grooving to the Doors and the Rolling Stones that one day I'd be an old fogey like my father..." He shook his head, tapped his coffee mug with the end of a pencil. "I found the three surviving Carrots all together, practicing in their studio."
"Studio?"
"Yeah. I went to the first guy's house, and was redirected to that industrial area along Still Creek. It appears that Greg Williams and his buds had some pretty serious aspirations. They've got a rented space above a warehouse, make their own recordings. Experimental stuff. I listened outside the door for a couple minutes, which was a couple minutes too long. A little too much feedback and not enough melody for my tastes." He rolled his eyes. "I never thought I'd hear myself say stuff like that."
"Greg's brother said he had to lend him rent money. Who's financing this studio?"
"My guess is that one of the band has a rich daddy. None of the Raging Carrots has a solid day job." He looked down at his notebook. "One of them does part-time warehouse work, one of them works at a gas station, the other one is... uh... between jobs right now. They opened the windows as soon as I got there, but there was a delicate stink lingering in the air. My guess is, given their technological bent, at least one of them is also into hydroponics."
"If their grow operation was big enough, they wouldn't need a rich daddy."
"Crossed my mind." Al drained his coffee mug.
"What did they say about Greg's death?"
"They'd already h
eard. The drummer - a guy named Max - said Williams was clean. No enemies, no trouble. The others pretty much agreed."
"You going to run them all on Cee-PIC?"
Al frowned. "Jesus, Hunter! Do I look like I need busy work? You just finished telling me that one of the prime suspects was seen arguing with the victim a week before his death, and lied about knowing him. Why would I waste my time on investigating a bunch of Carrots?"
Hunter searched for a suitable rejoinder but all he could come up with was, "Beets me," which Al didn't seem to appreciate. "The fact that Sharon knew the victim could be coincidental. That could be why they're afraid to admit finding him in their trailer."
"Yeah, right. And I could be the next King of England. Give me a break."
Hunter set his empty mug on Al's desk. "What next?"
"Like it or not, I'm going to follow up on your lead, check out Sharon Nillson's background, explore the connection between her and the deceased." Al shrugged an apology. "That's the most productive use of my time."
"Where is this studio? Mind if I check it out?"
Al leaned back in his chair and looked at Hunter, his eyes narrowed in thought. Hunter realized that Al had dyed his hair. Friday it had been pale brown streaked with gray, and now it was so dark it almost looked wet. Hunter wondered if Al had dyed it before or after becoming an old fogey. Al shrugged uncomfortably in response to Hunter's question.
"I won't mention your name," said Hunter. "It won't be for days, maybe not until next week. This afternoon I'll be on my way to California."
Al sat up, interested. "Right. I want to ask you something. You've pulled one of these reefer trailers before, right? If someone climbed inside, unbeknownst to you, and then banged and hollered to be let out, would you hear him?"
Hunter shook his head. "I doubt it. If he's banging on the trailer doors, he'd be forty eight feet of trailer away, and separated from your cab by seventeen tons of frozen beef, an insulated trailer wall, the refrigeration unit, moving air, and an insulated sleeper wall." He checked them off with his fingers. "In addition to the hum of the reefer, there's engine noises and traffic noises. My guess is no, but we could test it this afternoon before I leave, if you want."