Читать книгу Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - H. Mel Malton - Страница 11

Judas sang a good song

right up until they paid the price,

then he felt awful.

—Shepherd’s Pie

One thing I knew for certain, Francy and the baby couldn’t stay with me for very long. To begin with, there wasn’t the sleeping space. My bedroom was an add-on at the back of the cabin, barely enough room for my futon and a rack for my clothes. The bed was small and would have accommodated a friend only if our acquaintance were truly biblical. I didn’t think Francy would be interested in spooning with me, and I wasn’t about to suggest it. If Francy wanted to spend the night, I’d be sleeping on the workroom floor, which was part of the kitchen, which was part of the living room. In a place as small as mine, “open concept” just means there isn’t any room for walls.

Also, there wasn’t any plumbing. I had a pump outside, and when I wanted a bath, I heated water on the wood stove and bathed beside the fire in the zinc tub I got from Spit. There was no toilet, just an outhouse. On cold winter nights, I used a Victorian chamber pot. (I got it from Rico. When I told him what I wanted it for, he giggled, produced a lid for the pot and only charged me ten bucks.)

Francy had a baby, who would presumably need to be changed and washed occasionally, and after her recent ordeal, Francy would probably need a nice hot bath, but she wouldn’t get one at my place.

Then there was Becker. He would be looking for both of us and we couldn’t keep running forever. I was most likely in deep doo-doo as it was, scuttling away from the Travers place and then kidnapping the prime suspect. Did that make me an accessory after the fact? I wasn’t looking forward to finding out.

Becker had probably already interviewed Carla Schreier and Eddie, and Eddie’s statement would have made him even more eager to find Francy. He would discover that I had left with her, and he would drive back to George’s place, expecting us to be there. George would make excuses for me, but it was only a matter of time before Becker figured out that I didn’t live in the farm house. All he needed to do was ask one of the locals.

“Oh, you mean Polly? She lives in that old shack up on Hoito’s farm. Been there some years now. What’s she done? Always thought she was a weirdo.” Becker would come screaming up the track to the cabin and that would be that.

I decided to save him the effort and give Francy a bit more time to get it together. I bullied her into lying down for a nap with Beth on the futon, and she was out like a light in less than five minutes. Then I made some ham and cheese sandwiches and left them on a plate on the kitchen table with a note, which told her that I was going down to see George and not to worry. I locked the door when I left, which is not my habit, but then people don’t get shot around here very often, and leaving Francy and the baby alone gave me an uneasy feeling.

The October air was unseasonably cold, and I pulled my jacket around me, shivering. It was beginning to get dark already—those autumn nights closing in to warn the hapless Canadian that the snow would be flying soon. I had ten cords of wood split and stacked in my mind. All I had to do to make it a reality was to haul it out of the bush.

Leaves crunched under my feet and as I reached the end of the track which opened out onto George’s hay field, I could see that we were in for a spectacular sunset. Fingers of pink and orange light were reaching tentatively out of a low cloud bank, touching the treetops like neon icing. I thought of John Travers. Had he ever enjoyed a sunset? Of course he had. He lived here, didn’t he? Or had he been too unhappy a man to have ever looked up into the sky and felt glad to see what was there? He wouldn’t be experiencing any more sunsets, now. Walking down the hill, bathed in those impossible colours, I threw out a kind of mental “sorry” to John, wherever he had gone. Not that I had liked him much, but knowing he couldn’t see what I was seeing made me sad.

Becker’s cruiser was parked next to George’s truck, and I slowed to a saunter, putting off the inevitable. There were more lights on in the house than was usual. I guessed that the officer had decided to do a thorough search, maybe to see if the madwomen were in the attic, where they belonged.

I was about fifty metres from the house, fastening the gate which kept the goats out of the hay field, when Poe descended like a black bag of potatoes, landing so close to me that I gasped and jumped back.

“Dammit, bird. You scared me,” I said. Poe cocked his head to one side and I swear he was grinning. He had something hanging from his beak which caught the light.

“What have you got there?” I said. He just looked at me. I stepped closer, softly so as not to startle him. He rarely came close to me and I felt honoured, albeit slightly nervous. Budgies and robins I can handle, but ravens are big suckers and their beaks are wickedly sharp. The thing in his beak was a pendant of some sort on a gold-coloured chain, and as it turned, it flashed pink and orange.

I knew better than to try and take it. Ravens are terrible thieves when it comes to shiny things; they snatch them and hoard them like dragons do. George raids Poe’s stash every so often when he runs out of spare change, or if he can’t find the key to something. Poe is very possessive, though, and will defend his property if it’s threatened. George won’t touch the stash unless Poe’s outside, and even so, the bird notices right away and retaliates, usually by pooping on George’s pipe stand.

“That’s a pretty thingy you’ve got there,” I said. “Snatch it off a dead body, did you?” Then I realized the gallows humour of what I’d said and let out a bark of laughter. The noise spooked Poe, who dropped the chain and took flight, passing so close over my head that I felt my hair move. He landed on the roof of George’s house and started croaking at me, swearing in fluent Raven.

The thing was, he could very well have taken it off a dead body. After all, someone had left one lying around very recently, and Poe was a frequent visitor to the dump, often accompanying George by flying directly above the truck like an albatross.

I picked the thing up. The chain was heavy—solid gold, it looked like. The pendant was a crucifix, quite old and exquisitely carved, if you like that sort of thing. The tiny figure of the crucified man was lovingly detailed; anguished expression, nails and all. At the top of the cross was a little carved scroll, bearing the letters INRI.

I slipped it into my pocket, deciding to ask Francy later if it had been John’s. I had seen him more than once with his shirt open to reveal gold, although I admit I’d never looked closely enough to check out his jewellery.

An image flashed into my mind—of Poe, circling above the ruined body of John Travers, lying there in the “wood only” pile at the dump. Poe swooping down, maybe aiming for the eyes, thinking “Hey, hey! Snacktime!” then snapping up the shiny necklace instead. It could have happened. I damned my imagination for the picture, which made my stomach hop a little. I straightened up and walked towards the house, sticking my tongue out at Poe on my way.

“Where the hell have you been?” Detective Mark Becker said as soon as I walked in. He was standing in the middle of the kitchen and the cats were twining around his ankles like fuzzy socks. George was sitting in his chair, calmly puffing on a pipe, his biggest one, the meerschaum that makes him look like Sherlock Holmes. He smiled and winked at me.

“Nice to see you too, Detective. Hello, George, darling. All well?” I breezed over to George and kissed him. I had decided, the moment I set eyes on Mr. Calm Policeman, that I wouldn’t volunteer any information. I would just bloody brazen it out, as Aunt Susan would say. Nobody asks where the hell I’ve been and gets away with it.

George reacted to my less-than-subtle demonstration of our “domestic partnership” with a little pat on my behind. Good old George, I thought. He’s playing right along with it. I stood behind him, using him as a shield and placing my hands possessively on his shoulders.

“What are you doing back here?” I said to Becker. “Worried that I stole some important evidence from the crime scene? A dog biscuit, maybe?”

“Cut the funny stuff, okay?” Becker said. “I know you don’t live here. Mr. Hoito has admitted that much. What I want to know is, where is Mrs. Travers? Have you got her hidden away up at your cabin?”

I snatched my hands from George’s shoulders and blushed heavily. I could feel George shaking with amusement. The pat on the behind had been gratuitous—a liberty, dammit. I would get him back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

Becker sighed.

“Look, Polly. We went to the Schreier’s place. I know Francy Travers was there. I know you were there. You were both gone before we arrived, and you didn’t exactly say goodbye to your hosts.” I opened my mouth to tell another lie, but he kept on talking.

“I’ve been driving up and down the back roads looking for you two, and I don’t appreciate being made to look foolish.”

“You didn’t leave your partner at the Schreier’s, did you?” I said. “More than one of those squares of Carla’s and he’ll be going into sugar-shock.”

Becker’s mouth twitched a little, but he was still mad. “If you don’t tell me where Mrs. Travers is, Ms. Deacon, I’ll have to take you in for questioning.”

“Do you guys actually do that?” I said. “I thought that was just a TV-thing.”

“We do. You want to find out?”

“Would I get three square meals a day and a phone call?”

“The phone call’s definitely a TV-thing,” he said. “And we only have one cell and a guy puked in it last night. I can’t guarantee that anyone’s cleaned it up yet.”

Now, there’s a lot I’d do for a friend, but staying in a locked room with stale puke is where I draw the line.

“You win,” I said and sat down. Becker tried to, but he tripped on the cats, which were trying to climb up his regulation trousers. He stumbled.

“You must have had one of Carla’s squares,” I said. He just looked at me and didn’t say anything. “Okay, okay,” I said. “Francy’s up at my place, asleep with the baby. She’s not going anywhere—she’s exhausted. The baby, in case you were wondering, is fine.”

I got him with the baby line. He made a weary face and collapsed into a chair.

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad about that. It’s going to be hard for both of them, but we have to talk to her. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. She just needed to get away from, you know, the tension. It’s not every day your husband gets killed.”

“She tell you what happened?”

“As much as she can remember.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She sort of blanked out after… I suppose Eddie told you his side of it.”

“We have his statement, yes.”

“Well, after Eddie hit John, Francy says she sort of went away in her mind. Doesn’t remember going to the Schreier’s place. Doesn’t remember anything till I showed up. She asked me to help her. How could I say no?”

“Easy. Like this: No.”

“I’ll remember that next time you need a favour.”

“Polly, your friend Francy is the spouse of a homicide victim. There’s questions we’ve got to ask. Details. She wants to know who killed him, doesn’t she?”

I remembered Francy’s face as she told me that she would like to shake the hand of the murderer, but I didn’t mention it.

“She’s afraid you’ll think she did it,” I said.

“We have to suspect everybody at the beginning,” Becker said patiently, as if he were speaking to a child. “It’s the rules. Of course we suspect her. We suspect you. We suspect Mr. Hoito, here as well.”

“George? You suspect George? Why the hell would he murder John Travers?”

“Polly—” George said, but I was building up a head of steam and kept on going.

“George Hoito is the gentlest, most loving man in the world. He rescues baby birds with broken wings, for God’s sake. You’re wasting your time suspecting him.”

George patted my hand. “Thank you, Polly. That is the nicest testimonial I have heard in a long time.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, glaring at Becker.

“All Mrs. Travers has to do is talk to us, give us a reason to believe she didn’t do it, and she’s fine,” Becker said.

“What? What about innocent until proven guilty? I know that’s not just a TV-thing. I think it’s even in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Are you familiar with that document, Detective?”

George raised his hand like a grade-school kid asking to go to the bathroom.

“Excuse me,” he said, gently. “I’m sorry to interrupt the debate, but Francy and her baby are up there in a cold, dark cabin, alone. Maybe she would appreciate some company about now.”

“Oh God. That’s right. Let’s go.” We said it together. Same words. Same tone. Weird.

“Follow me,” I said. “George, can I borrow your flashlight?”