Читать книгу Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - H. Mel Malton - Страница 6

The foam-choked howls of starving wolves

are background music—nothing more

when weighed against that drunken man

who staggers past my flimsy door.

—Shepherd’s Pie

“I met Francy and John two years ago at the Shepherd’s Pie barn dance in the village,” I said. I didn’t have to explain about the dance. It was an annual event, a local tradition. The Laingford cop shop always sent a couple of guys out our way on account of it, just to keep an eye on things. Becker had most likely been there himself at some point. Everybody went.

Ruth Glass and Rose Shelley are the lead musicians for Shepherd’s Pie, the folk band that’s been getting so much press lately. I’ve known Ruth since public school, when we were both considered a little strange. I wrote a lot of poetry back then, and Ruth started setting my stuff to music. When it began to pay off, Ruth hired me as her lyricist. I don’t write as many songs for her as I used to, but I like to keep my hand in, because the money’s good and it gives me a kind of secondhand glamour.

The band spends a fair amount of time on the road, touring, but every year around harvest time, Ruth and Rose throw a big party, opening up their barn and roasting a side of beef. They always bring in a couple of kegs of ale from the Sikwan Brewery and lots of people bring their own mickey of sipping whiskey. It gets pretty rowdy, sometimes, but it’s Ruth and Rose’s way of keeping in touch with the community and avoiding what they call the “uppity star syndrome”. It works.

“I had only been there for half an hour or so,” I said to Becker. “It was around eleven o’clock and the party was only just starting to cook. Shepherd’s Pie usually plays a set after midnight, but before that all the local musicians take turns getting up on the platform to jam. Rico Amato was up there playing old fiddle music and there was a crazy square-dance happening, except that nobody around here knows how to do it and nobody was calling it so there was a lot of milling around. It should have been really good energy, but something was wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Becker said.

“Well, you know how a crowd can turn ugly in a second? Like one moment everyone’s best friends and the next moment there’s a fight?”

“Been there. Done that,” Becker said.

“Well, it was like I was watching it change in slow motion. I got there right at the crucial moment when things were okay, then a tension rose in the air, like a smell, near the back door. So I went over to see what was going on.”

“Everybody loves a fight,” Morrison said.

“It wasn’t that,” I snapped, although it had been, a bit. We’ve all got that morbid curiosity gene that makes us slow down when we drive past a road accident, even if we hate ourselves for doing it. Some people keep it in check, but most don’t, including me. But I wasn’t about to admit that to Morrison.

“I went to see if there was anything I could do.”

“Like you’ve got a black belt, maybe?” Morrison said.

“Let her tell the story, Morrison,” Becker said.

“We’ll be here all day,” Morrison said. Becker ignored him and so did I, although I took the hint and got to the point, describing the scene as best I could.

John Travers had been drunk. Really drunk, the blind, dangerous kind that makes some men seem twice as big as they really are. He was staggering around bumping into people, and some guy he’d bumped into had pushed him back. They were getting loud and people were starting to edge away, looking nervous.

I had seen John around—in the hardware store and the A&P, but I’d never spoken to him. He was very good-looking, sort of sulky and sexy at the same time, with a crazy, doanything glint in his eye. I didn’t know Francy then, but I’d heard of her. She was hovering in the background like a palefaced angel, telling him to calm down, to get normal.

She was one of those women you can’t help noticing. She had long, frizzy, white-blonde hair which bushed out from the top of a tiny, fine-boned body, and her skin was perfectly white, like wax. She wore a small diamond stud in her nose. But once you took a look at her, you sort of looked away and then looked back, because the whole left side of her face was a mass of burn scars. Once you see that, it’s hard not to stare.

Everybody knew that something was about to happen.

“Stay back,” some guy said to the people near me. “John’s gonna snap.”

John took a swing at the other guy, throwing himself off balance. He staggered and to make up for it, started roaring like a moose in heat.

The other guy hit back, clipping him on the chin and John went berserk. There was a screech like the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail, and then Francy was in there, clinging to his back and screaming at him to stop.

John acted like he was being bothered by a horse-fly. He shook himself, once, which made her lose her grip. Then he turned around, looked her right in the eye and belted her.

“I’ll never forget it,” I said. “It was the most gut wrenching thing I’ve ever seen. It was as natural to him as breathing. His fist just came round and whacked her. I stopped being scared because I got really, really mad.”

“You waded in, huh?” Morrison said.

“Not really,” I said. “I’m not the fighting type, but when John hit Francy, everyone kind of surged forward. Most people around here, if they see a couple of guys duking it out, they’ll just move back and watch, but if a woman gets hit, they get angry.

“Suddenly I was next to Francy,” I said. “I grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the way just as three guys jumped John. Her lip was bleeding. I asked her if she wanted me to call the—you guys, but she said there was no point. She said she never had the heart to charge him with anything.”

“So this was not an isolated incident,” Becker said.

“Nope. It happened all the time.”

Francy had always been very tough about it. Stoic. I’d tried to do the caring-woman-friend number on her, but she wasn’t interested. She insisted that she could handle it. She hated me butting in.

“So,” I said, “she took me by the hand like a little girl and said ‘let’s get a beer.’ But she stopped to tap some guy on the shoulder and say ‘Don’t hurt him much, just knock him out.’ They did.”

“Jesus,” Becker said.

“I ended up driving them home. John was still passed out, so some helpful guys loaded him into the back of George’s pickup, because the keys to John’s truck had disappeared. Turns out that one of his buddies confiscated them because John was too drunk to drive. He meant to give them to Francy, but he forgot and left.”

“It’s nice to know that the message is getting through to some people, some of the time. There are responsible citizens out there after all,” Becker said, pleased.

“Buddy with the keys put his own car into the ditch that night. Pissed to the gills. That’s why he forgot to give the keys back.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I helped her drag John into the house, and she gave me a cup of coffee. We talked. Since then, we’ve been pretty good friends. John still flies—flew, I guess—into a rage now and then, but Francy always told me to butt out. You know how it is.”

“I sure do, and it drives me crazy,” Becker said. “You get called out on a domestic. Neighbours, usually, complaining about the noise. You arrive and there’s some guy just whaling away on his wife, or girlfriend or whatever. She defends him, refuses to lay charges. When we do, because we have to, either she doesn’t show up in court, or she recants the whole thing.”

“I know. I read the papers. It’s a syndrome or something,” I said.

Morrison snorted. “What I can’t understand is all you feminists saying it’s the guy’s fault when it’s the woman who just stays there and takes it. Why don’t they just leave?”

“Don’t start on the feminist thing, Morrison,” Becker said, quietly. I had a feeling they’d been through this once or twice before. Morrison didn’t reply.

We had arrived at the Travers’ place. The clapboard house was flanked by a row of derelict cars like a shabby bride with rusty bridesmaids. Some of the cars were on blocks, most had their hoods up.

Next to the house was a garage, a big quonset hut with filthy windows and a half open front, spilling car parts and unidentifiable slabs of metal. A beautifully hand-painted sign announced “Auto Repair and Body Shop—J. Travers, prop.” Francy had painted the sign for John’s birthday the year before.

A dog, chained to a doghouse a few feet from the front door of the house, began barking furiously.

“That’s Lug-nut,” I said. “John’s hunting dog. The rule is he’s not supposed to be touched, ever. He’s kept hungry and he is not a happy puppy. Don’t be patting him.”

“Not likely,” Becker said. “He’s tied up, right?”

“He’s tied up.”

There was no sign of movement inside the house. Usually Lug-nut’s welcome would bring someone out immediately, or at least prompt a twitch of the dingy curtains at the window.

“Are you just gonna sit there?” Morrison said. “Afraid of the puppy?”

Becker turned to Morrison in the first show of temper I had seen him display towards his bulky partner. It was long overdue, as far as I was concerned.

“Morrison,” he said, “considering the fact that you have not moved your goddamn fat ass from that seat since we started work, and considering that you won’t be moving it until the end of the shift, I would appreciate it if you would keep your stupid mouth shut.” With that he got out of the cruiser and slammed the door shut with his foot.

“Geez,” Morrison said. “I was only kidding.”

Becker opened my door and handed me out with the manners of a highly-professional butler. He slammed my door too.

“Bravo,” I said, very quietly.

We went to the door, giving Lug-nut a wide berth. The dog was almost hysterical now, and despite myself, I felt sorry for him.

“It’s okay, Lug-nut. It’s okay, boy.” I always said that, using my most soothing voice. It probably didn’t make a scrap of difference to Lug-nut, but it made me feel braver.

Becker had been knocking but there was no reply.

“That’s odd,” I said. “It’s almost noon, and Francy usually puts the baby down for a nap around now and has a smoke on the porch.” (I didn’t tell Becker what kind of smoke she has on the porch at noon. I’m not stupid.) “You can usually set your watch by her.”

“There’s no car here,” Becker said, “or at least no car you could drive. Maybe she’s at a doctor’s appointment or something.”

“Francy doesn’t have a car and she can’t drive anyway,” I said. “John’s truck’s missing, though. It wasn’t at the dump, was it?”

“Nope. What kind of truck was it?”

“GMC half-ton. Beat up. Baby-poo brown. Don’t know the year.”

Becker went down the steps back to the cruiser to talk to Morrison. I supposed they would put out an A.P.—whatchamacallit for the truck.

“Try Kelso’s Tavern in Laingford,” I called. “He used to drink there practically every night.”

Becker nodded, presumably passing the information along. Lug-nut had stopped barking. In fact, he had stopped doing much of anything. He was lying with his head between his paws, ears drooping instead of the usual flat-against-the-skull signal to back off. His ribs stuck out. His water bowl was empty. He whined once, piteously.

I felt awful. Francy didn’t like the dog, I knew that, but depriving him of water was mean.

“Are those crocodile tears?” I said to him. “If I come over there to fill your bowl, will you bite my hand off?” He didn’t say.

Becker returned. “We’ll be looking for Travers’s truck,” he said. “Now, what about Mrs. Travers? She got a neighbour she might have gone to?”

Then I realized that the pram was gone.

Francy and I had found the pram at the dump. It was an old-fashioned one with a high undercarriage like those monster trucks favoured by big men with small dicks. We had taken it away on a Spit day and it hadn’t cost us a cent. Francy kept it on the porch because it was too wide to get in the door. When the new baby, Beth, was put in it, she looked like she was lying in a football field. I told Becker about the missing pram.

“She might have gone over to the Schreier’s place, I suppose,” I said. “It’s the closest, and young Eddie sometimes helps John out in the shop. Francy’s not particularly friendly with Eddie’s mother, though. Carla Schreier’s a holy roller, and doesn’t approve of John or Francy.”

“We’ll go over there, then,” he said.

“Wait, Becker.” I had left off the “detective” part on purpose, because I wanted to know what his first name was. He knew mine, after all, and my hormones were way ahead of my reason. If he told me his name, I thought, it would be a step in the right direction. “Becker” was what Morrison called him, and it sounded mildly aggressive. He stopped in mid-turn.

“Mark,” he said. “It’s Mark.” Hah. I tried not to smile in triumph.

“Mark, listen, we have to do something about this dog. He’s got no water and his master’s dead, so he isn’t likely to get fed any time soon. Francy will have enough to worry about after we tell her.”

Lug-nut was listening half-heartedly. He wasn’t a bad looking dog, really, when his ears weren’t plastered to his head. Part shepherd, part black lab, and something else. Something mongrelly. His eyes were yellow, which was unfortunate, but it wasn’t his fault.

Detective Mark Becker looked at me, then at the dog. Lugnut knew we were talking about him and pressed his body further into the ground, achieving a kind of road-kill effect that was far from attractive. He whined again.

“Yeah, okay. You’re right.” Becker’s eyes went to the hose attachment next to the porch. “We can fill his water bowl there, but unless his food is kept outside, he’ll have to stay hungry for a while longer. We can’t just break in.”

“Why not?”

“It’s against the law, Polly.”

“Oh, puhleeze. Francy’s my friend. I walk in all the time. I know where the food is. I’ll do it.”

“She keep her door unlocked?”

“This is the boonies. Nobody locks their doors here. You should know that, a country cop and all.”

“I haven’t been here very long,” Becker said. “Where I come from, you don’t go outside to water your lawn without locking your door.” I didn’t bother to answer. City people. Geez.

He walked towards Lug-nut and reached for the bowl. At once the dog sprang up from his abject pose and snarled, displaying an impressive set of fangs. Becker dropped the bowl and leaped back, swearing. From the cruiser came a highpitched giggle.

“Morrison doesn’t like you much, does he?” I said.

“The feeling is mutual. The dog’s not crazy about me either.”

“Let me try. He knows me, sort of.” I moved forward, my hand out in the age-old Nervous-Human-Pretending-to-be-Friendly routine. “It’s okay, Luggy. Okay, boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” I talked to him the way I talked to Beth, Francy’s baby, who made me just as nervous as the dog did, for different reasons.

Lug-nut bought it. He sniffed my hand, then licked it and wriggled over on his back, presenting his belly to be rubbed. It was like winning a lottery. If only men acted that way.

Becker made a huffy, annoyed little sound.

“Want me to rub your belly too?” I said without thinking. He laughed aloud. A cop with a sense of humour. Curiouser and curiouser.

Lug-nut obviously wanted me to make up for his lonely years of never being touched, and I knew how he felt. But there was sad news to be delivered and I couldn’t sit around playing Her Majesty and the Corgis all day. I picked up the bowl and turned to Becker, but he had walked back to the cruiser to talk to Morrison.

I filled the water bowl and put it within reach of Lugnut, who drank most of it in one schloop. Then I took the food bucket and walked in the front door. Becker didn’t follow.

The hall stank, as usual. It was full of sweaty, mud-encrusted boots and oily overalls. I headed through to the kitchen where Lug-nut’s food was kept under the sink.

There had been a “domestic”, I thought.

Chairs were overturned, there were beer bottles on the table, some smashed on the floor. The fridge door was open. I moved to close it and my foot slipped in a patch of wet. I looked down and saw it wasn’t beer, it was blood.

“Becker!” I yelled.