Читать книгу Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - H. Mel Malton - Страница 25

She plays his love

like a practice violin,

cold precision, some small art in

her continual adjustment of his tension.

—Shepherd’s Pie

It took some negotiating to get Becker to remove the handcuffs. George was diplomatic, but it was obvious that he was as pissed with me as Becker was. They both treated me as if I wasn’t there. Beckers eyebrow-cut had opened up again. I guess that was my fault. The handcuffs pinched, and I stared at the ceiling, thinking about how wicked they made me feel. I was a criminal. A dangerous offender. A police officer had needed to restrain me. They made me feel ashamed and oddly exultant at the same time. It was very weird.

“…can overlook it because she was reacting to shock,” George was saying.

“She knew damn well what she was doing when she hit me,” Becker said.

“It was perhaps a reaction to the sedative,” George said.

“It’s a reaction to the police acting like fucking idiots,” I said.

“Polly, be quiet!” George almost never raised his voice. I shut up.

“I can release her into your custody,” Becker said, “but you’ve got to make sure she behaves herself. No more sticking her nose into police business.” I was outraged. What was I? A child? George had no jurisdiction over me, and he knew it, but there he was, nodding and looking sorrowful, like I was a kid caught shoplifting. I swallowed my anger and looked at the floor.

“Turn around, please, Polly.” I did as I was told, and Becker removed the cuffs. I massaged my wrists, just like they do in the movies. It’s not because the handcuffs cut off the circulation, I discovered. You massage your wrists because you can.

“You will be doing an autopsy, yes?” George said, as Becker headed for the door.

Becker turned and glared. “Whether or not we do an autopsy is our business, Mr. Hoito.” He paused, and then took a step towards me. Involuntarily, I took a step back.

He spoke very quietly. “I am willing, for now, to overlook this incident, but I won’t forget it. If I hear anything, anything at all about you doing any more nosing around this case, I will assume that you are willing to face the consequences of your actions in their entirety. With drug-possession and assault charges, you could face a prison sentence. Remember that, Polly.” Then he left, ignoring Lug-nut on the porch, who had missed the excitement and still wanted to be his friend.

George stared at me, his eyes wide. “Drug possession?”

I blushed. “I offered him a toke last night,” I said. George burst out laughing.

“Polly, Polly, Polly,” he said.

“I thought it was okay,” I said. “He freaked out.”

“There are times when I must seriously question your sanity,” he said.

“Me too.”

“So. How are we going to discover who killed John and Francy Travers?” George said. I hugged him, hard. Poe cawed, flapped his wings and landed with a thump on my shoulder. I gasped and felt immediately taller, more important. I held out a finger, and by God, he nibbled it. My eyes teared up. Animals. They can do magic, sometimes.

We sat down at the kitchen table and started making a list. Poe stayed on my shoulder like a new guardian angel, and his sudden acceptance made my heart hurt.

“Here,” George said, handing me a pencil and a scrap of paper. “You must write things down as we think of them. I shall make the tea and be Hercule Poirot.”

“Who do I get to be?”

George looked me over.

“Miss Marple?”

“Hardly. She was terribly proper.”

“Reid Bennett?” (He’s the Ted Wood cop-character who owns Sam, the Wonder-dog. George reads whodunits too.)

“George, I didn’t shoot Becker or break his jaw. I only hit him a couple of times. Anyway, Lug-nut will never be a Sam.”

“Nancy Drew, then. No. Nancy Druid.”

“That’s better.”

“Good,” George said. “Now, how is this to start? Number one. Somebody shot John after Eddie and Francy left the Travers’ house, some time after eight o’clock.”

“Right,” I said, writing it down. “And the weapon may or may not have been John’s own gun.”

“You saw it in John’s truck, yes?”

“I saw what I thought might have been a gun barrel. There’s no proof, because someone removed it before the cops got there.”

“What does that tell us?”

“That whoever took the gun away knew that I had found the truck, I guess.”

“Maybe, but that is only speculation. It may have been a coincidence.”

“True. Anyway, Eddie saw me coming out of the garage and told everyone at that holy rollers meeting that I was there, so anybody could have known.”

“Do you think the holy rollers are involved?”

“I don’t think so. They’re a weird bunch, for sure. Otis and Donna-Lou especially. And the Schreiers. But murder? I hardly think so. But people gossip around here, eh? The news about me was out.”

George brought tea to the table and pulled up a chair. “We know that the killer took John’s body to the dump, because we found it the next morning,” he said.

“Well, we don’t know that it was the killer who moved the body,” I said. “It could have been an accomplice.”

“And it might have been someone working with Freddy, because Freddy hit Spit Morton on the head to get him out of the way,” George said.

“We don’t know that for sure,” I said. “Freddy and Spit could just have had an argument that had nothing to do with the murder at all.”

“We are not getting very far,” George said. “What do we know for certain?”

“Somebody hid John’s truck in his garage. We know that for sure. And covered it up so it would be hard to find. And there was blood in the truck, so we sort of know that John’s body was in there at some point.”

“Good. Put that down.”

“And I’m also going to put down what I know for sure. That Francy didn’t kill John, or herself.”

George put his hand on my arm. “How can you be sure, child?” he said. “I know you have always had trust in her, but she was unstable, was she not?”

“I know because I know. There are some things you don’t question.” I sounded more definite than I felt. Especially after hearing about the alleged suicide note. Still. You had to have faith.

“So, somebody hanged-up little Francy and put a false note telling the police that she had killed her husband. Was that to make them stop investigating?”

“I guess. But what I can’t understand is how Francy let herself be hanged.”

“She was probably drugged first, Polly. They’ll find out when they do an autopsy.”

“If they do an autopsy. And George, Becker said that the note was written on the same notepaper the squirrel note was on. If that’s true, then whoever did the squirrel thing also killed Francy. Freddy. It’s Freddy.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“What we also don’t even have a clue about is why John was killed in the first place. The truth of it is that when he turned up dead, nobody cared very much. It must have something to do with the money. Oh God. The money.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the kibble-cash.

“Where did that come from?” George said. I explained where I’d found it, and that I would have given it back to Francy if she’d been alive when I got there.

“So that was the treasure you were talking about before. I thought it was harha-aistimus—a vision, a hallucination. Did you tell Detective Becker?”

“No. I forgot.”

“You were too busy trying to punch off his head, you mean.”

“Something like that. Now what do I do with it? I’m not supposed to butt in anymore, right? Or Becker will lock me up and throw away the key.”

“You could talk to Morrison.”

“But as soon as I call the station, they’re going to know that I’m still butting in, aren’t they? I’m scared, now, George. Becker was serious about arresting me. If only out of spite. I don’t want to give him the excuse.”

“You could call and ask about the funeral arrangements. I didn’t hear anything about a funeral for John. Did you? But there must be someone who will want to give Francy a goodbye. I would not want to miss it.”

“The funeral. Of course. The police will know all about that, won’t they?”

“The logical people to ask, I would say.”

When I got the receptionist, I asked very specifically for Morrison. We had been working on our sleuth-list for long enough that Becker was probably back at HQ by now, and I didn’t want to take any chances.

Morrison came on the line just as John Denver began telling me that life on the farm was kinda laid back. I was grateful for the interruption.

“You have Muzak,” I said, accusingly.

“Yes, we do. It’s supposed to keep our callers calm. But from what I hear, Muzak won’t work on you, eh?”

“Is Becker there?”

“You want to speak to him?”

“NO! No. I want to speak to you, Constable Morrison. I need some information.”

“After what you did to my partner, I don’t owe you shit,” he said. “He’s mad as all get out, and although I don’t know the details, I know damn well you’re responsible. You know how hard he is to work with when he’s like that?”

“I can imagine. Sorry.”

“I’ll just bet you are.”

“Listen, I know you don’t owe me anything. But there’s something I really need to know.”

“What makes you think I care?”

“You cared enough about Lug-nut to ask me to take him in.”

“So?”

“So, don’t tell me you don’t care. I know I’m supposed to mind my own business from now on, but I’m wondering about the funeral arrangements. I never heard anything about a funeral for John. Have you released the body yet?”

“Yesterday. The day after we questioned Mrs. Travers. She had it sent to North Bay, to his parents.”

“Really? Why?” There was a pause, as if he was making up his mind about something. Then his voice got quiet and he spoke rapidly.

“She told us she didn’t want to play the grieving widow. Said his folks wouldn’t want her at the funeral anyway.”

“That’s weird.”

“Yup. Backs up what was in the note, Becker says. She knew her in-laws wouldn’t want John’s killer to be present.” In the background, I heard a door opening and a murmuring question. Morrison covered the receiver with his hand and said something which sounded like “funeral home”. Then he was back on.

“That’s crap, Constable. She didn’t kill him.”

“I know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We don’t have that information yet, ma’am,” he said, loudly.

“Are you telling me that you think that note’s a fake?”

“Yup.”

“Should you be saying that?”

“Nope.”

“Is Becker listening?”

“Yup.”

“Can you meet me for coffee at the Tim Horton’s in Laingford at nine? I have some new information and I can’t give it to Becker.”

“Yup. Okay, ma’am. I hope that clears things up. We’ll let you know about the arrangements for Mrs. Travers.”

He hung up, and I was left staring at the phone. I turned to George, who had been listening openly, a grin on his face.

“Morrison is onto it, yes?” he said.

“I think so. I’m going to meet him later. I’ll tell him about the money then. And find out about Francy’s funeral.”

“He was a fine wrestler, was Earlie Morrison.”

“Pardon?”

“Morrison. The policeman you were just talking to. He used to wrestle in his high school, won all the local championships. He wrestled as a professional for some time after he graduated, then he decided to become a police officer. Moved back to Laingford when he got a job on the force here. Now he coaches the high-school wrestling team. He is a good man, Earlie.”

“I’ll bet nobody calls him Earlie to his face,” I said.

“Everybody does,” George said, fixing me with a look. “Everybody except your Becker.”