Читать книгу Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - H. Mel Malton - Страница 5

She’s got her good dress on

and she’s waiting like a bracelet

for his arm.

—Shepherd’s Pie

George drove me home after I woke up. I had never fainted before and I was mortified.

“Must have been because I didn’t have any breakfast,” I said, more to myself than to George, as the old truck bounced along the Dunbar sideroad. He was driving more slowly than usual, which I appreciated, but it didn’t make much difference. The Dunbar road hasn’t seen a municipal grader since the Great Depression.

“It is a good thing you didn’t eat, actually,” George said. “Bodies are best discovered on an empty stomach, I think.”

“You have a point. Oh, shit.”

George stepped on the brakes. “Are you going to throw up?”

“No, no. I just remembered that I was supposed to go with Becker to tell Francy about John. I don’t want her to be alone when they tell her.”

“The policeman Becker already thought of that. He said you should take it easy. He’ll finish up at the dump and then come to pick you up. You should have seen him when you fainted. He caught you before you hit the ground, like one of those figure-skater fellows. I thought he would twirl you around a couple of times before he put you down.”

“I really don’t know why I chose that moment to black out,” I said, disturbed by the thought of Becker’s arms around me. Wish I’d been awake.

“It was good timing,” George said. “It got us away from there. No more questions.”

“True. Actually, I did it on purpose.”

“Of course you did. What talent!”

“I feel like shit, George.”

“Then I will make you some of that blood-cleansing tea you have been trying to make me drink. Set you right in no time. The policeman said he would call from the dump hut before coming out here.”

George Hoito had lived alone in his old brick farmhouse for more than twenty years. He had emigrated to Thunder Bay in his thirties and found a safe home in the Finnish community up there. He’d married a Finnish woman, and stayed immersed in a culture that never changed. Then, when his wife died, he’d moved south. South, that is, as far as Kuskawa.

He had two cats and a tame raven called Poe, who strutted around belligerently on leathery black legs, just daring the cats to come within reach of his wicked beak. They very sensibly left him alone.

Poe’s wingspan was too wide for indoors. He preferred a kind of flapping hop to raise himself up to his favourite perch—a bookshelf near George’s woodstove. He was enormous and took some getting used to. I suppose it’s instinct that makes a bird so watchful, so oppressively aware of everything. Aunt Susan had a budgerigar called Snubby which always stared at strangers, but being stared at by a budgie was not as off-putting as being watched by Poe. If a dog or cat looks at you, you can usually figure out what they’re thinking. Fuzzy animals use body language and wear facial expressions. Birds just look judgmental, and Poe made me feel like carrion. He perched on George’s shoulder sometimes, but he had never perched on mine.

Perhaps Poe resented the attention I paid the cats, whom George ignored completely, considering them working animals only, hired to keep the mice in line.

When I was comfortably settled in the guest chair at the kitchen table, a steaming mug of alfalfa tea before me, George’s cats appeared out of nowhere like smoke and wrapped themselves around my legs, purring loudly. I lifted them both into my lap where they made a nice, comforting pillow of fur, and Poe, watching as always from his bookshelf, made a rude croaking sound and shook his feathers at me.

“Feeling better?” George asked. He had not made any tea for himself and was preparing to drive the truck out to the back field, where he would dig a deep hole for Dweezil.

“Much better, thanks. But I’m worried. Somebody shot John Travers in the chest and conked Spit Morton over the head. Why?”

“It was probably one of Travers’s gambling friends,” George said. “He was always getting into fights, you know that. Perhaps he refused to honour a debt. Or perhaps it was a husband. I have heard stories about John Travers and the ladies.”

“Yes, but to leave his body at the dump? It’s so ugly. So mob-like.”

“Maybe it was Rico Amato. I always thought he had mob connections.”

“Rico? Hardly.” Rico ran a small antique store near the highway. He was a fastidious man, exceedingly well groomed and a well known supporter of local arts organizations. He played the violin, not very well, and gave fabulous parties.

“I don’t think Rico has ever been to the dump in his life, George. And I don’t think he’s ever met John Travers. They don’t travel in the same circles.”

George looked at me oddly. “I was joking, child. Leave it to the police. They probably already know who did it, or Francy will be able to tell them. This is Cedar Falls, remember, not Toronto. We do not get mysterious killers hereabouts.”

“But we did just find a body at the dump, George.”

“And I guarantee that the police will arrest somebody by tomorrow morning. Now drink your tea. I’ll be back soon.” He headed for the door.

“I’ll be gone before you get back,” I said. “Becker, remember? He’s coming to take me away in his cruiser. Maybe they’ll arrest me, just to get the thing cleared up fast.”

George smiled. “If they do, don’t expect me to bail you out. I am just a poor old man.”

“Poor, maybe. Old, never. Happy digging.”

He left. At the last moment, just before the door closed, Poe swooped down from his shelf and settled on George’s shoulder, going along for the ride. I imagined the tall, shaggyhaired figure seen from a distance, digging a hole, a raven perched on his shoulder and the lumpy sack containing Dweezil propped nearby. Gothic, very. I hoped nobody would be watching. That’s how rumours get started.

It wasn’t Becker who telephoned an hour later, it was the big guy. He identified himself as Constable Morrison and I recognized his voice—sort of greasy and self-satisfied. The last time I had heard him speak he had called me “little lady” and I had fainted, plop, right into Detective Becker’s arms. Maybe Morrison thought I had fainted with shock at his tone, because he was much more polite this time.

“Ms. Deacon?”

“That’s me.”

“Detective Becker is just finishing up here at the scene, and he asked me to call to inform you that we would be there shortly. It’s the only house on the Dunbar sideroad, is that right?”

“Yes. Watch out for the potholes, Detective.” I could imagine the frame of the police car groaning as Morrison’s bulk jounced around inside. I caught myself hoping that he had eaten a huge breakfast (which was likely) and would find the trip as uncomfortable as possible.

After I hung up the phone, I felt a trifle disappointed. I had been looking forward to seeing Becker again, but I hadn’t bargained on Morrison. I guess you can’t expect Laurel without Hardy.

I ran my fingers through my hair and made myself sit calmly at the kitchen table, like a debutante waiting for her prom date. I was wearing chore clothes and I hadn’t taken a bath recently. I probably looked like hell and anyway, developing a crush on a cop was really, really stupid. I counted the reasons.

One: Becker thought I was George’s girlfriend, and the concept had obviously put him off—I saw the sneer. So he wouldn’t be interested. More likely, revolted. Some people are like that about age disparity. Not me. Aunt Susan had a twenty-one year old boyfriend once and I thought it was incredibly hip.

Two: He was a police officer, which would mean that if we were to get involved, I would have to quit smoking dope. Some people drink cognac, I smoke dope. No big deal, but I imagine it would be to him.

Three: I had not had a romantic relationship since Drew, the actor, had stormed out of my apartment after throwing a three-hundred dollar Audrey puppet against the wall. (The puppet bounced back. I didn’t, and swore off men for life. I thought.)

Three strikes, you’re out, I said to myself, as the cruiser pulled up outside.

There was no sign of George, but way off in the distance I saw a black bird, wheeling. Poe, doing the funereal raven bit.

Becker got out of the car to meet me on the steps. I glanced at the third finger of his left hand (oh, you idiot) and there was no ring. Great.

“You okay?” he said.

“I’m fine. Sorry about fainting all over you. I’m not usually so girly.” I was babbling already. “You call Francy yet?”

“No, ma’am. There are some things you can’t do over the phone.”

“You sure this is okay? Me coming with you?”

“It’s better this way,” he said. “Informing families of a death is never easy, and I usually take a woman police officer with me if I’ve got to tell a wife about a husband, or a woman about a child. But there aren’t any women available right now, so I’d appreciate you being there.”

“As a woman-substitute?” Defensive. Real smooth, Polly.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean,” he said. “No offense intended.”

What was I trying to do? Get him to say “Oh no, ma’am, you’re all woman. No question.”

“I was joking,” I said.

“Oh. Hard to tell these days, ma’am. Political correctness seems to have killed humour dead.” We both let the word “dead” just hang there.

“Anyway,” he said, after a moment, “you’ll be better in this situation than my partner. He doesn’t do sensitive.”

“So I noticed.” We had reached the cruiser, where Morrison waited in the driver’s seat, looking a little green. Good. The road had done its worst.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go in the back,” Becker said. He opened the door for me, and I half expected him to put his hand on my head as I climbed in, like they do in the movies to protect the prisoner from getting bumped. It was not a pleasant feeling back there. There were no handles on the inside of the doors.

Morrison grinned at me in the rear-view. “You want to cuff her too, Becker?” he said.

Becker was no more amused than I was. He turned around in his seat to talk to me, his face distorted by the mesh separating us. I leaned forward to remove myself from Morrison’s view. Our faces were very close.

“Tell me about Francy and John Travers,” he said.