And On the Surface Die

by Lou Allin

  Jeff turned to him with a worldly-wise curl to his full lips. “Just some fun. Why not? Didn’t work out, so I blew her off. We were going off to different universities anyway. Who cares? Follow what I’m saying?”

  “Oh, I follow completely, sir.” Chipper snapped his notebook shut.

  * * *

  Last on Holly’s list was Janice Mercer. A short, wide girl with blocky glasses came over. Instead of the revealing shorts that most girls wore, her denim pair hung nearly to her knees, topped by a Save the Rainforest sweatshirt. Her eyes were beady and swollen, and she sniffed at intervals. “I was her tent partner, but honest, I conked right out around nine. Mom says I sleep like a log. I never saw her after dinner at all. She just, like, vanished.”

  Holly let her talk for a moment. Janice hugged herself and gave a shiver. “Brr. I’ve been going all hot and cold, but I’m not sick. Do you think it’s shock?” She blinked at Holly, an innocent calf-like creature at first glance, but with crafty intelligence behind the pose. She reminded Holly of someone who sought small advantage by talking behind a person’s back. A sneak.

  “Very likely. If there’s a regular soft drink around, try that. Or coffee with sugar.”

  “Yuck. I never drink caffeine. Just herbal tea. Chai.” Her cautious diet hadn’t helped a serious case of acne. Having skated clear herself as a teen, Holly could only imagine the humiliation.

  “Please tell me what happened. Anything you remember.”

  “Not that she was my good friend. I’m not very popular. That’s ’cause I believe in hard work, not fooling around like some of these...kids.” She waved a stubby hand in their general direction. Her nails were short and serviceable, without a hint of polish.

  “It’s tough. I was kind of independent, too.” Holly revised her strategy. Here was a girl on the edge of the crowd, quiet, paint on the wall, but perhaps a conduit for information. On the other hand, sometimes these types sucked up extra attention, embellished their stories or even lied to attract a rare spotlight. She moved closer, locking eyes as if they were confidantes. “What’s everyone saying?”

  Janice gave a humph. “I don’t pay them any mind. They’re all so stupid. The boys show off like gorillas, and the girls talk about nothing but clothes and make-up. And they read Teen magazine. My parents gave me a subscription to National Geographic.”

  Holly had to smile. “So did mine.”

  Despite the years gone by and the addition of boys, not much would have changed at Notre Dame. In Holly’s day, even the lunch tables had status levels. She gave Janice an understanding nod. With a more flattering hair-do, a touch of natural makeup for those zits and some less intrusive glasses, she might be a late bloomer...if she got a personality transplant. “High school is an artificial world. I tried to forget it as fast as I could. And you’re a senior now.”

  The girl leaned closer. “They’re all losers. They just don’t know it yet.” Her tone was bitter, with an undercurrent of strange confidence. She saw someone in the crowd and brightened. “Do you have any more questions? I need to ask Mr. Gable something.”

  Holly set her free and reviewed her notes. She couldn’t see Chipper.

  Gable walked toward her a few minutes later. “Have you talked to the students you mentioned? I’ve been making some calls from the restaurant phone. The parents will be at the school in an hour and a half to pick up their teens.” He brushed a hand through his hair and sighed. “God, the place will be buzzing. At least, that’s what happened when we lost two boys to an auto accident last summer. Alcohol was a factor. And speed.”

  Holly turned at the diesel rumble of an elephantine motorhome in blinding chrome entering the campground. She was hardly aware of the fact that she spoke aloud. “Now’s the worst part.”

  He cocked his head, a concerned smile on his lips. “I don’t follow.”

  “Telling the family,” she said, turning to a fresh page. “Do you have an address, offhand? Nate’s the father, you said? Same last name as Angie? I have to ask these days.”

  He touched her arm, an honest plea in those grey eyes. “Listen, could I come along? Nate and I have been good friends since I moved to the island. We’ve both raised money for the Lions Club.”

  She thought for a minute. This should be her task and hers alone. No shortcuts to this heart-tugging ritual. But Gable knew the man. The father might need someone to stay with him. People often said that of women, but men were equally, if not more sensitive. A man was more likely than a woman to commit suicide after a love affair gone bad, partially because his choice of weapon was more fatal, a gun rather than pills. The romance of death supped from the blood and bone of the young and impressionable.

  “I’d appreciate it.” Gable would be the first contact person should more information be needed. There was nothing suave or smooth about him, just an earnestness that proved he cared about his charges. The stereotypical job of vice-principal put him in control of discipline, a dull but necessary job outside of the inner city. Presumably he had his eye on a principalship, either at Notre Dame or another Catholic high school. Even now, were there any woman principals in the parochial system?

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a thoughtful gesture. This would be a brutal assignment for him, too, she imagined. “Maybe I should call Nate first. Normally we’d be watching the Major League playoffs together. Boys’ night out. Pizza and beer.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground.

  “Thanks, but we prefer to tell the family ourselves.” Not only was it a courtesy, but in the odd case where the parents might be involved in a crime, it was necessary to gauge their reactions.

  Gable paused for a moment, then blew out a breath in frustration. “But I—”

  “Protocol.” She gave him a sincere but professional smile. Her vocabulary was beginning to assemble a category of helpful terms which made an officer sound efficient but still human.

  “Okay, I guess that’s best.” He pressed his palms together. “Can we meet at the Grant Road turn at four? They live on Rhodenite. Nate works as a senior manager at Costco in Langford, but he has weekends off.” He paused as if something else bothered him. “Sure I can’t even call him? Give him a minute to prepare for the bad news.”

  Holly closed her notebook. “Think about it. That would be even worse. Letting the man stew for an eternity, wondering about the details. We’re counting on you to help us do things the right way.”

  As they returned to their respective vehicles, she could hear him mustering the youths to pack up. Clearly, the entry of civilian personalities could compromise even the most straightforward situation. She remembered how Ben Rogers had played a distraught family like a sweet piano until he got the necessary information. An older boy had been molesting the neighbourhood children, often through his sessions as a babysitter. The fact that he worked cheaper than the girls had made him popular. Avid churchgoer and boy scout, he was the last person to suspect. The children adored him and his gifts of candy. Apparently he was quite gentle, convinced that his affections were welcome. Recalling that sad monster gave her the shivers.

  “I’m going to call in,” she said to Chipper. When the radio failed to work, she added, “I thought we were on West Coast Repeater west of Sooke.”

  Chipper fiddled with the controls and shook his head. “It’s in and out like a yo-yo.”

  Cells also out of range as expected, they found a pay phone at a service station. Holly didn’t like the feeling of being hung out to dry. What if something went seriously wrong? The techies had been working on the problem for years. At the end of the line, Port Renfrew was stricken when their phone lines went down in storms. Last week a car rushing a patient to hospital had crashed, leaving two victims to the failures of telecommunications along a rocky, forested coast.

  Back in Fossil Bay, she and Chipper completed their paperwork at the detachment. Late reports were an officer’s bane. This would be a good test of the man’s determination... and his grammar. Carele
ss errors which emerged in court cast doubt on the investigatory skills of an officer and could toss a case into the garbage can. Ann had left on their arrival, taking her aching back to an early bed.

  A few hours later, she rendezvoused with Gable at the busy corner of Grant Rd. Noticing that he drove a venerable VW bus with large flowers painted on the side, she couldn’t help but comment when they parked on Rhodenite Drive in a tidy suburban enclave. “I know,” he said with a grin as he bumped the rusty door with a hockey hip block. “Got it from the collection of an aging hippie draft dodger. Runs an organic farm in Duncan. As old as the Vietnam War, but it still ticks like a Timex. While the weather’s still good, I plan to do some exploring on the island. Strathcona Provincial Park, Cathedral Grove. Come winter, I might get over to Whistler for some skiing.”

  The Didricksons lived in a pink stucco storey-and-a-half home, judging from the rounded brown shingles, probably built in the early nineties. A towering monkey puzzle tree grew on the front lawn. As they walked along the bricked path, Holly gazed up at the heavy fruits ready to fall. Late-blooming azaleas and plump rhodos added riots of pink and purple to the tropical effect. Greater Victoria benefitted from the Japanese current, which moderated temperatures. Neither too hot nor too cold. The perfect porridge. A glossy black vintage Mercedes sat in the drive, ready for a Sunday parade. Islanders pampered their classic cars, freed from the salt and wear of winter driving. Forty-year-old Mustangs mingled with Gremlins, Bonnevilles, Pintos and the odd Studebaker Golden Hawk.

  More nervous as they approached, Holly reviewed her courses in Interpersonal Communications, Crisis Management and Grieving. What had she learned about breaking bad news? Empathy. Eye contact. No box of tissues to replace the charming but unhygienic handkerchief. She hoped she wouldn’t stutter.

  “Ready?” Gable gave her an encouraging look. For a moment, she thought he was going to squeeze her hand.

  She knocked firmly, and the door was opened by a large man with broad shoulders. He had a slight beer belly, but the fitness genes announced themselves, and so did the aromas of bacon and fried potatoes from a late breakfast. In comfortable jeans, he wore a polo shirt and carried a copy of the Times Colonist under his arm, a welcoming smile on his round face, thick brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing her uniform, he furrowed his brow, then looked at Gable, a question in his cool blue eyes.

  “Paul? Anything wrong?”

  Gable shifted his glance back and forth. “Nate, this is Corporal Martin.”

  Her pulse off to the races, Holly stepped forward, her hand extended. Their shake was a mere gesture of civility. Out with it.The swift cut is the kindest. “I have bad news. Your daughter, Angie, has been in an accident at Botanical Beach.” Damn. She hadn’t breached the battlements of the cruelest truth.

  He stepped back as if struck, placing a workingman’s large hand on the door frame. His unshaven face paled, and his jaw hardened, a muscle at the corner pumping. “A car wreck? Damn those kids. I told her not to ride with anyone with a novice license.” He paused, staring in accusation at Gable. “You said you were taking vans. Call this responsible chaperoning? What the hell—”

  “It’s not that, Nate,” Gable said, putting a hand on his shoulder and blinking, moisture in his eyes.

  Holly swallowed back a sob. “She drowned, sir. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  As they stepped inside, she let Gable take him aside for a moment, opening her notebook in an automatic gesture. What did she really have to ask him anyway? A few muffled groans came from Nate, the paper dropping to the handsome fir flooring. Behind him, a polished mantelpiece was covered with shiny gold and silver trophies. On the wall, candid pictures of Angie poised at the starting blocks at her meets displayed the progress of a champion. Hadn’t Gable mentioned a son? An ancient golden retriever rose from a cushy corduroy pillow in front of the fireplace, shook its arthritic body, and ambled toward Nate to nuzzle his hand.

  He straightened and cleared his throat. For a moment, though he opened his mouth, no words came. Suddenly he became aware of the dog and let his fingers brush the silken ears. “Buster. He’s nearly blind now. Got him when Angie was three. He was her guardian angel.”

  Holly made sure that the dog saw her first before she stroked it. Like most goldens, it was quiet and amenable. A perfect therapy dog. Not as serious as shepherds, nor as bright, but a winning, dippy smile that made it one of North America’s favourites.

  Nate pulled himself from Gable’s steadying arm. “When can I—”

  Holly adjusted her voice for the gentlest tone. He was handling the death of a child better than she expected. Yet what else could he do? Keening and wailing was a woman’s province. Men had such burdens. No wonder they snapped. Her father had been dry-eyed throughout the crisis with her mother. For her a solid knight. But in private, she knew he mourned at every sunset, staring out to sea, alone and frozen in grief.

  “Angie is at the Jubilee. There are formal procedures. An autopsy perhaps.”

  “Is that necessary? She drowned. It seems simple enough. Why put us through...” His voice trailed off, and he finally let his legs shuffle him to a seat in a leather armchair.

  “They’re ordered thirty per cent of the time. It’s rare but possible that physical causes were responsible.”

  “What physical causes? She was a goddamn world-class athlete. She should have lived...” His voice trailed off, and his fists squeezed into themselves.

  Holly took from him only what she needed for the time being, the evidence of a life. “We’ll give you a call tomorrow. And Mr. Didrickson, I’m so very sorry.”

  As they walked to their vehicles, a boy about eight with a vocal VRRRROOOOM tore down the street on a mountain bike, bumped up a curb, and turned into the driveway. Gable gave a wave. “That’s the son. Robin.” He wiped at a tear in his eye. “I’m going to stay with Nate for awhile. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “It’s kind of you. I was going to suggest it if there isn’t local family. This is no time for him to be by himself.”

  “He has a sister in Metchosin. Very nice lady. I’ll get her over here.”

  Back at the detachment, Holly passed Chipper heading for his elderly Sunfire. He’d been taking the bus, but had recently got a loan from his parents to buy the thousand-dollar beater.

  Under his arm, he carried a manila folder. “Taking my report home for another read,” he said. “One class assignment I wrote: ‘She said that she had been gone for fifteen minuets and that her ex-husband had stolen the cat for breading purposes.’” He spelled the offending words.

  Despite the grim day, Holly produced a genuine laugh. “Spellcheck was invented to lull a writer into a false sense of security.”

  “You’ve got that right.” He held up a battered Strunk and Whyte style manual. “Ann gave me this. Said she nearly wore out the pages. I never can keep affect and effect straight.”

  At least her staff got along with each other, she thought. Inside, she organized her notes and rerouted the answering machine to her house as officer on call. Then she set the security cameras and locked up. As quiet as Fossil Bay was, keeping the detachment open for more than one shift wasn’t feasible.

  “Hello, baby,” she said to the 1985 Honda Prelude. When her Civic had coughed its last breath at 250,000 klicks, she’d traded it in at Sooke Motors, adding a new sound system for CDs. The Prelude was cherry in colour and condition, having been owned by an eighty-year-old retired jeweller who drove it only on weekends. The sound system was top of the line. She rolled back the sunroof and slipped in a disk of Sheryl Crow’s duet with Kid Rock. Holly’s mother had been no faithless spouse diving into a bottle, but lines from “The Picture” made her throat hurt. “I called you last night at the hotel/ Everyone knows but they won’t tell.” Did someone on this tight little island have information about Bonnie Martin? “I want you to come back home.” As if she could. From the beginning, Holly had known in her heart that her mother was dead.


  She headed east a few miles on winding West Coast Road toward Otter Point, where her father lived. It had been too easy to accept his generous offer to share the large home. With her fledgling career and modest salary, buying a property was impossible with average prices shooting past four hundred thousand dollars. Legal (or illegal) suites were available only through close connections, and apartments were scarce. Park trailers were an alternative, but she wouldn’t be stationed here for more than a few years and didn’t want the hassle of selling.

  Reluctant though she’d been to return to a place with bad school memories, she wanted to be sure her father was as well and happy as possible. The quintessential professor, he nursed his absentmindedness like a fond character trait. It allowed him a certain aloofness, especially from women. She wondered if he was lonely, because he’d never admit it. Neither did he mention female companions. Perhaps, with her dismal dating history, she was closer to him in personality than she thought. The social whirl never had meant much to her, busy and content in her own company.

  She passed Kirby Creek, Muir Creek, Tugwell Creek, pioneer names from settlement. A metal sign on each bridge flagged the salmon habitat and urged people to protect “our” resource. Many feared the fishery might collapse, due to overfishing, sea-lice transfer from fish farms, or hungry seals staking out claims near spawning areas.

  At Gordon’s Beach, a curious string of miniature homes perched on the narrow shoreline, elbowing each other like in a Disney film. Some were flimsy shacks, others brand new whimsical hobbit houses with gables, turrets, nooks and crannies valued at over half a million. With fifty feet frontage or less, they clung like limpets to the strip of land. Turning on Otter Point Road, passing a llama farm and saluting the dark brown shaggy male who gazed into another pasture at his harem, she took a left at Otter Point Place, a sunny hillside dead-ending in a turnaround. With the opposite side of the street still pasture returning to bush, it had an unsurpassed view of the ocean.