The Devil Made Me

by Lorena May

  She rustles through the papers on her lap. “It would’ve been about twenty years ago, but the person of interest and the sketch Ken drew could very well be the same person.”

  Mel continues to stare at the road. “So we have a witness to a murder in an unsolved cold-case.”

  Darby feels her heart drumming. “Do you think he saw the girls in the pub last Thursday? Maybe Scarlett approached him? She’d be a witness ...”

  “We need to find him,” Mel says.

  Her eyes flash. “If he was at the Hogshead, maybe he lives in the area. Let’s check out bars, grocery stores and service stations here in Rockydale first.”

  They spend the morning showing the police sketch to dozens of Rockydale residents. A few twist their faces, thinking hard, but no one can identify who he is. “I think I’ve seen him, but . . .”. They drive to the next town, Ryerson with the same results. Finally, in Lilyville, they pull into a gas station. The owner, weathered and stooped, taps the sketch with his index finger. “Yeah! That’s Joe Johnson! He owes me for gas. Did a gas-and-dash a couple of weeks ago. If you see him, put the squeeze on ‘im for me, will ya?”

  Darby frowns. “We surely will.”

  “If I knew where he lived I’da gone there myself. But he hangs out at the Royal Hotel, I hear. They might know more.”

  “Thanks,” Darby says, giving him a thumbs-up as they hurry out the door. “With any luck you’ll get your money! If it happens again, call the police.”

  The Royal Hotel is an old brick two-story sitting on the corner of the town’s main street. It’s seen better days. The windows are dark and grubby, the steps lop-sided and shabby. A large, worn sign, ‘Royal Hotel’ with a faded crown on it hangs over the front door.

  The pub is dark with walls the color of a nicotine stain. It smells of stale beer A thin, wrinkled woman with bright red lip-stick and orange rouge spots hobbles over to them as they enter. Her smile is genuine, and her voice cheery. “Hello there, Coppers.” “What can I do for you today?”

  “Hello.” Darby shows her the police composition sketch of Jed. “Do you know this man?”

  She takes the sketch, holding it in bird-like hands, gravely studying it. “That looks like Joe.” She looks at Darby through narrowed eyes. “Is Joe in trouble?”

  “We’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

  The woman is clearly curious. “Yes, he’s here often.”

  “Do you know where we can find him?” Mel asks.

  She hesitates, takes a deep breath, and points toward the window. “He lives a few kilometers west just off Highway 13, I think. I’ve never been there, but seems to me that’s what he’s said.”

  “Let’s head in that direction and ask at farms along the way.” Darby suggests.

  THE FIRST HOUSE THEY see along Highway 13 is a rambling brick bungalow. They pull up on the graveled drive-way beside it, and Darby rings the door-bell. A beaming, robust young woman answers.

  Darby holds up the sketch. “Hi. Do you know this person?”

  The woman’s face falls, and all gaiety disappears. “That’s Joe Johnson,” she says, a touch of bitterness entering her voice.

  “Can you tell me about him?” Darby asks.

  “He’s an A-1 asshole,” she says without hesitation. “Gives me the creeps.”

  Darby grins, a conspiratorial smile. “Has he done anything we can deal with?”

  The woman thinks a moment, then lets her breath out in a huff. “No. I guess you can’t prosecute threatening looks, messiness – just all-round ugliness.” She shrugs. “Sure would like to see him gone, though.”

  “Do you know where we can find him?”

  “Sure do. He lives next place down the road about three kilometers. Pig-sty yard. You can’t miss it!”

  SHE WAS RIGHT. THEY can see the garbage in the farm-yard and beyond almost as soon as they hit the road again. Old tires, furniture with broken legs and stuffing poking out, car parts, tractor parts, garbage bags, rusty barrels, discarded tires, piles of broken and abandoned household goods . . . litter the driveway, swelling out towards the ditch. Collapsing buildings, sagging and shattered, dot the site. Mel navigates the squad car through a narrow pathway to the house. They can see it was white once, but most of the paint has long since gone, and the siding is greyish. It’s surrounded by a sagging wrap-around verandah with narrow spindles hanging garishly, broken and jagged.

  Together, the two detectives march up to the door. They ring. No answer. Mel steps down from the rickety porch and walks around the house, peering here and there, his feet swishing through the long, snow-covered grass. Darby pounds on the door.

  It opens a crack, though she’s heard no sound. An eye peers out.

  “Hello?” Darby puts her hand on the door to keep it from closing. “I’m Sergeant Greer, Rockydale RCMP,” she says. The door opens slightly wider. Two eyes, wide and frightened-looking, stare out. “Can I speak with you a moment?” Darby asks.

  The opening widens to reveal a shriveled little woman with lank, grey hair hanging around her face. She wears a crisp white shirt over baggy jeans, and large, furred slippers. In her hand she holds a cigarette, which she puts to her mouth, inhaling deeply. “Okay,” she says, her voice raspy.

  Mel, hearing. voices, comes around from the side of the house to stand behind his partner.

  “This is my partner, Sergeant McDougall. May we come in?” Darby asks.

  The woman nods, eyeing the detectives with watery eyes. She leads them across a lower entrance filled with old jackets, rubber boots and worn shoes, up two stairs into a kitchen that is surprisingly pristine. Though the thread-bare, linoleum floor is peeling, and the countertops are chipped and worn they gleam with fresh wax. A tea kettle, coffee pot, white tin canister set and a yellow container are the only items on the counter. The gleaming white porcelain sink is free of dishes.

  “Coffee?” The woman asks. She stands at the counter avoiding eye contact, pulling what looks like home-made cookies from the big, yellow cookie-jar.

  “Sure!” Darby says, her eyes brightening.

  Mel nods.

  When coffee is poured and a plate of cookies are placed before them the woman sits at the old chrome table across from Darby and Mel, leaning on her elbows. “We don’t often get company these days,” she says, reaching across the table to slide a pack of Export cigarettes toward herself. “What would you like to talk about?”

  “Is this the home of Jedidiah Andrusyszyn?” Darby asks, taking a cookie from the plate offered her.

  The woman’s eyes flare. She’s silent a moment, thinking. “Yeah, he’s my husband.”

  “And you are . . .?” Darby smiles her warmest smile. She finds herself strangely drawn to this woman. Poor, simple soul.

  “I’m Rose.” She lights a cigarette, taking a quick drag. “Jed ‘s out hunting. Left at the break of dawn this mornin’.”

  “Have you lived here l0ng?” Mel asks, glancing out the window.

  “About five years now,” Rose says. “We rent out the land. Works for us.”

  “Good land,” Mel says. “Nice and flat and fertile...”

  Rose nods. “We’re too old to farm it ourselves any more. The farmer who works it don’t complain.”

  “Your cookies are delicious, Rose.” Darby smiles, picking up the last bites from her plate and popping them in her mouth. “Where’d you live before coming here?”

  “We lived just outside Red Deer.” Rose is busy dithering with her hands, her head shaking a little, looking at her lap.

  Darby leans toward the woman. “Did you know a man named Dave Sims and his family?”

  Rose’s eyes brighten with long-ago memories. “Yes. Dave was Jed’s friend and business partner. Such a nice guy. And those sweet little girls . . . But then we didn’t see him any more. I don’t know what happened.” She takes on a far-away look. “Those were good times.

  They sit, silent for a moment. Mel clears his throat. “Do you know anything about the busin
ess they were in?”

  Rose shakes her head slightly, running her hands through her hair. Her face takes on a blank look. “Some kind of sales, I think.”

  The door in the back entrance bangs open, and they hear a loud clattering sound. Rose seems to shrivel into herself. She looks toward the porch as loud footsteps thunder up the stairs.

  “Who’s this?” The voice is gruff and threatening.

  Darby and Mel rise to their feet, facing the man that stands just inside the kitchen doorway. He is red-faced with heavy features; a large man dressed in a camouflage shirt and jacket. Thin grey hair hangs down his back.

  Mel speaks first. “I am Sergeant McDougall and this is my partner, Sergeant Greer. You must be Jed Andrusyzyn, alias Joe Johnson?”

  “What do you want with us?” he snarls, glaring.

  “We’d like to ask a few questions.” Darby steps forward. “You were at the Hogshead Pub on Thursday evening?” She looks at Rose, who sits with her head down, arms folded around her frail body.

  Jed looks at Rose. “She tell you that?”

  “No.” Darby lifts her chin, staring defiantly at the hostile man before her. “A witness in the Hogshead told us that.”

  “So what if we were?” His stance becomes wide, threatening.

  “Did you see a woman, Scarlett Sims?” Darby asks.

  “You have a warrant?” Jed asks. “If not, get out of my house.”

  “It is to your benefit to cooperate with us,” Darby reasons. “We can come back with a warrant, and it may not be a friendly visit.”

  Jed moves as if to strike. “I’m not your fucking friend. Get out!”

  Darby’s dark eyes flash. Oh, how I’d love to take this worthless piece of shit down! But she remains calm, and turns to Rose who is visibly trembling. Touching the terrified woman’s shoulder, she slips her card into Rose’s hand. “Thank you for the coffee and cookies,” she says. She keeps her stance wide, eyes unwavering as she looks into Jed’s, wild with fury. “Mr. Andrusyszyn, if you want to avoid charges you need to turn right around, drive to Lilyville Esso and pay for the gas you stole from there. We’ll follow you to make sure you do.”

  Jed stands breathing heavily, glaring. With one final glance at Rose, he turns, throws on the baseball cap he holds in his hand, and heads out the door.

  Darby and Mel walk slowly from the kitchen, down the steps, stopping to put their boots on and look around for any sign of a kidnaped woman. They see nothing,

  “Friendly fellow,” Darby quips as they walk to the car, her eyes scanning the yard, watching his old green truck roar and screech out the driveway. “See anything?”

  Mel stands still a moment, listening and looking at the wreckage of the place. “Lots of sheds here, obviously unused. If he’s holding her here I don’t think the wife knows anything about it.”

  “No. The house is her domain. She keeps it ship-shape. The yard on the other hand... Poor soul. I worry for her,” Darby says, biting her lip. “She knew the Sims family from a long time ago, but didn’t seem to see the sisters Thursday night. I just don’t think we have enough for a warrant.”

  Mel sighs. “Let’s stop by the Lilyville detachment. See if they can keep an eye open around here.”

  “Did you see him flinch when we mentioned Scarlett Sims?”

  Mel nods. “Let’s hope we didn’t remind him that another witness is still out there.”

  Darby chews her lip. “We had to protect Rose. Couldn’t let him think she told us. But that may not be good for Emily Sims.” She stops and turns to look one last time toward the house. “That poor woman. I wish there was some way of helping her.”

  Mel shakes his head. “She’s lived this way for a very long time. Makes you wonder.”

  THEY SIT IN THEIR CAR at the Lilyville Esso watching Jed slink through the door, his shoulders hunched, head down. He pulls his wallet from his pants pocket, pulls out some cash and throws it on the counter. The owner scowls at him from behind the till.

  “Ah, that does my heart good!” Darby cries, clapping her hands.

  Mel agrees. “Makes my day.”

  Chapter 11

  ~Em~

  The hair on Sheba’s neck stands stiff, and she growls as she watches the scar-faced man jump into his car and drive away, but she rubs Em’s legs and wags her tail as they enter the porch. Em hears Abi sobbing softly. A male voice murmurs comforting sounds. Em and Sheba walk into the kitchen. Abigail is sitting on a chair, her face buried in Matthew’s neck as he rubs her back. They look up when Em and Sheba enter.

  Matthew’s face is grim. “That gangster is threatening Abigail,” he says.

  Em stands, gawping. “Who was that? What did he say?”

  Abigail lifts her head to look tearfully at her older sister. “He came here about half an hour ago, asking for Scarlett. Said she owes him money. A lot of money. Twenty-thousand dollars. He said if he doesn’t get it by Friday they have ways of dealing with us.”

  “Like what ways?” Em feels her gut clench.

  Matthew looks fondly down at Abigail, who is white-faced, wringing her hands. Then he looks at Em. “He wasn’t specific. Said they had ways of ruining pretty faces like Abi’s.”

  Em takes a deep breath. “Who is he?”

  “He just said, ‘we’ and ‘us’, and that Scarlett had been messing with the wrong people. That she owes them money and they want it now. It’s to be mailed to this post-office box number.” Matthew pulls a notebook from his shirt pocket, glances at it, and hands it to Em. John Smith, PO Box 737, Rockydale, AB. He wraps his arms around his fiancée, who is trembling, fresh tears springing from her eyes.

  A sense of calm overtakes Em, suddenly. She’s been in crisis before. “We need to call the police.”

  “No!” Abigail jumps up, rushing to her sister, grabbing her hands pleadingly. “No Em. He said we will be sorry if we contact the police.”

  “What did he mean ‘we’ll be sorry’?”

  Matthew’s jaw tightens. “We can’t risk it. They may throw acid in Abi’s face. Who knows what they might do? We need to come up with the money.”

  Em feels herself tightening from head to toe. How will they do that? They borrowed up to their eye-balls to buy this place. They have almost no equity. The bank won’t lend them money. What has Scarlett gone and done? And where is she?

  “I’m going to stay here on your couch tonight if that’s okay.” Matthew stands, his arms dangling at his sides. “Just in case.”

  “Oh, thank you, Matthew.” Abigail heaves an audible sigh of relief. She rises, heading for the stairs. “I’ll get you sheets and blankets.”

  “What was your sister into?” he asks Em when Abigail is out of ear-shot. “Did you know anything about this?” His voice holds a note of accusation.

  Em glares at him. Who does he think he is? She ponders. Scarlett has seemed preoccupied lately, and is often away. But she has seen no drugs on her. No gang members hanging around. She hasn’t seemed to suddenly have a lot of money. “No. I know nothing about this.”

  EM LIES IN BED, HER mind churning. She can hear Abi and Matthew purring sweet nothings outside her bedroom door. Then, “Good-night,” and Matthew’s soft foot-steps padding down the stairs, Abi’s door closing.

  She checks her phone to see if her sister has answered her last desperate text, ‘Where r u? scar-face guy here asking 4 money u o. $20 000 by Friday. Threatens Abi.’ There is no answer.

  “Sorry, Scarlett. Snooping is the only option now,” she says to the air as she slips from her bed and creeps across the hallway into Scarlett’s room. She sifts through makeup and jewelry, small boxes and trinkets on top of the dresser. Shuffling through Scarlett’s clothing in the drawers her fingers clutch what feels like a paper bundle. With a start, she pulls it out. Her hands are trembling as she rips off the packaging to find a small, blue box and a white envelope. Yanking the top off the box, she stares at a large man’s ring with a gold encrusted diamond. Her breath comes in small gasps. ‘What t
he hell...?’ Setting it on the bed, she tears open the envelope. Hundred dollar bills. Fumbling through them, she counts. One - two - three ... there are one hundred of them. Ten-thousand dollars. Feeling faint, Em wilts to the floor, holding the money in her hand. Finally, on wobbly legs she rises and wanders back to her own room.

  There, on her dresser, she spies her phone, the face lit with a message. ‘I’m sorry. It’s impossible for me right now. I’ll pay you back when I get home. Just pay the money. Please don’t contact the police.’

  How? How in the hell were you expecting us to come up with twenty-thousand dollars? And you don’t even mention the money in your dresser drawer!

  Chapter 12

  ~Darby~

  Darby pokes her head into Mel’s office as she leaves for the day. “It’s quitting time,” she sings.

  Mel looks up from his computer. “Right away. We’re going to the grand-kids’ Christmas concert tonight. How about you?”

  Darby grins. “Me too! I never thought I’d be going to school concerts, but Skye plays in the band and she has a concert tonight. She’s a drummer. Picked out of a whole bunch of kids that applied. I’m pretty proud.”

  Her phone rings. “So much for quitting time,” she calls to Mel as she rushes back into her office. “Sergeant Greer speaking.”

  “Darby?” She feels a little rush of pleasure in spite of herself. “It’s Jim. Did I catch you busy?”

  “Hi, Jim. No. I was just leaving.”

  “Heavy date?” Is there a note of resentment in his voice?

  She feels reckless, suddenly. “Actually, I’m going to Skye’s band concert tonight. Want to come?”