Читать книгу Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle - Jeffrey Round - Страница 13

The Killingworth grounds were extensive, reaching from the road down to the water, and stretching for more than an acre in either direction. Along with the main house, they included a six-car garage, a boathouse and launch, as well as a small barn and stables beside a disused garden showing the remnants of winter-hardy herbs and self-seeding perennials. Dan noticed more of the azure blue flower he’d seen outside the window of the main house. He thought he recognized it as something he’d once been warned against picking, but couldn’t put a name to it. The outer gardens clearly hadn’t felt a gardener’s touch in a long time. The boathouse held a sixteen-foot racing cat and two canoes strapped against the upper beams alongside a collection of lifejackets flung haphazardly overhead. Like the garden, the stables too were abandoned. There were stalls for six horses, and the barn held the remnants of hay bales. A rusted can of rat poison perched on an unpainted window ledge, its ancient emblem warning against improper usage barely visible. The drafty interior had become home for field mice and jittery swallows zooming about in the shadows and through the shafts of light penetrating the beams.

Dan crossed a deep carpet of pine needles and set off along the shore. Algae-covered rocks and logs extended under the waves, spectral ladders reaching down into another world. He stayed away long enough to dispel the irritation and gloominess that had dogged him since arriving. It was Bill’s weekend, after all; he wouldn’t spoil it.

By the time he returned, the company had broken up in the living room. Charged by the hour, the room reflected an expectant stillness as light settled over the carpets and caught on the backs of the sofa and chairs.

Dan went upstairs to look for Bill; the room was empty. Further along the hallway hung a realist portrait, an anomaly in the house. The artist’s name meant nothing to Dan. A tag labelled its subject as N.M. The man’s eyes carried a foreboding look while his placid features masked a dark spirit. Dan felt he wouldn’t have wanted to be alone with him, whoever he was.

He turned and almost collided with someone coming along the hall.

“Sorry,” Dan said, surprised by the man’s sudden appearance.

For a moment he thought it was Thom. He had the same northern good looks — wavy hair, tidy sideburns, smooth skin — but with rounder features and none of the razzle-dazzle.

“Hello there,” said the stranger in a voice that suggested competence, sincerity. “Another guest shanghaied in service of the wedding party?”

Dan laughed. “Just a casual hanger-on, I’m afraid,” he said. He held out a hand. “Dan Sharp. I’m with Bill McFarland.”

“Ah! Thom’s old school chum.” A brilliant smile geared down to something gentler. They shook. “Trevor James. Thom’s disreputable cousin from the west coast. I’ve just arrived.”

“You don’t look so disreputable to me,” Dan said. “Though I know appearances can deceive.”

“In this family, disreputable means ‘not rich enough.’ They introduce me with caution.”

“Then I guess I’m disreputable too,” Dan said, feeling the gratification of an instant liking.

“We should form a club. I was just about to head downstairs to find cousin Thom. What about you?”

“Same,” Dan said. “I’ve been out wandering. I should let them know I’m back.”

“Let’s search together.”

Downstairs was empty. From outside came a shriek. Trevor glanced outside. “Looks like everyone’s down at the boathouse.”

They found a back door and crossed an expanse of lawn, past birdbaths and torches set along a flagstone path. In another month it would be unthinkable to have a party out here, but the evening was surprisingly warm and humid, as though it were still the middle of August.

Others had arrived. Bill was talking animatedly to a couple down by the boathouse, gesturing grandly over the water as though describing a plot of land he intended to build on for future generations, or perhaps asking them to guess how much the bay was worth.

Thom turned as they approached. “Daniel, there you are. Bill’s been quite worried.” He made a face at Trevor. “And so should I, now that I see your company. What has my dreaded cousin been telling you about me?”

“Nothing, actually,” Trevor said. “I’ve been talking about myself for once.”

“How gauche! Didn’t you tell Daniel I was the first person you had sex with?”

Trevor smiled indulgently. “No, I thought I’d leave that little mishap unspoken for once.”

Thom turned and pointed to the stables. “It was right over there. I sucked Trev’s cock when he was only nine years old and I was — what…?”

“Ninety?” Trevor said.

Thom made a slightly drunken bow. “Thank you kindly.”

Trevor turned to Dan. “Apparently the blame fell on me when I was seduced by Thom. Another reason I’m considered disreputable.”

“You’re nothing of the sort,” Thom insisted. “But only because you don’t try hard enough.”

“The first person I had sex with was my cousin, too,” Dan said.

“Really? How big was he?” Thom demanded. “Tell us all about it. What was his name?”

“Leyla,” Dan said, and Trevor laughed out loud.

Thom pretended disgust. “A woman? I’m disappointed. I thought you were a purebred!”

“No,” Dan said. “I already told you — there’s nothing pure about me.”

“So I’m learning.”

“Go on,” Trevor said. “Tell us about Leyla.”

“I’d heard a rumour that Leyla had the best tits in junior high school, so one night when I slept over I pretended to be asleep while my hands did a bit of exploring....”

Thom feigned a gasp. “And was she asleep too?”

“Apparently not. She let me feel her up for a while, then she grabbed my winkie dink and gave it a squeeze.”

“Smart girl....”

“I let out a scream. Her mother came running in and separated us. She thought we were fighting. That was the end of it.”

Trevor was laughing.

“Not exactly a tussle over your lost virginity,” Thom concluded. “One day I’d like to hear that story. And maybe even watch a re-enactment.”

A voice hailed Thom. They turned and saw someone heading toward them from the house. The newcomer was small and slightly stooped, as though aged, but dressed in striped cords, paisley shirt, and rock star shades.

“Speaking of lost virgins ...” Thom murmured.

“I heard that,” the man said.

“Good — I intended you to,” Thom said.

“Cousin!” the newcomer said to Trevor. “You look splendid!”

“It’s been a long time,” Trevor said. “How are you?”

“Fine. Very fine. It’s good to see you again.”

“My brother,” Thom said apologetically, leaning in to Dan.

“Richard the Lost,” said the man, shaking hands with Dan.

“Is that who you are now?” Thom asked.

“Yes, it is. I’ve changed my name again.”

“Don’t believe him,” Thom said to Dan. “This is my brother Teddy,” he insisted. “Teddy is a filmmaker.”

“Ted, please….” Ted’s shades glittered in the fading light, reflecting the oncoming sunset as though a movie were playing inside his head.

“And Dan’s a missing persons investigator with a lurid past. He was just telling us about it.”

Ted gave him an appraising look. “How intriguing! Maybe you could sell me your story. How lurid is it?”

Dan shook his head. “Not very, I’m afraid.”

A woman with high cheekbones and ringletted hair stood on the periphery of the group, sipping from a martini glass. She smiled shyly. It was, Dan thought, the smile of someone uncertain who she was.

“Ah! And here’s Jezebel observing everyone,” Ted said. “My leading lady.”

Jezebel laughed a high-pitched laugh for no reason anyone could discern. They turned to watch and her expression transformed: shyness to modesty betrayed. Now she was Julia Roberts spotted buying tampons and toothpaste in a common pharmacy. She tipped her glass at them and her expression changed again, as though she were trying out for the role of a character suffering multiple personality disorder.

“Isn’t this place wonderful?” she cried.

The guests seemed perfectly placed in an artist’s rendition of an autumn lawn party. Others were still arriving, singly and in pairs. Dan watched as a rather shockingly well-endowed young man crossed the yard wearing only a leather jacket with a blue Speedo underneath. Someone else turned cartwheels across the grass. The sticky end-of-summer heat thinned as the light died out behind the hills.

Loudspeakers blared down by the boathouse. At one point nearly everyone seemed to be dancing. Thom and Sebastiano gyrated at the centre of the action. Dan stood at the edge of the lawn looking on. He felt someone standing near him and turned. Daniella was watching her brother and Thom.

“Tell him not to marry,” she said, her words barely audible.

For a moment, Dan wondered if she meant Thom or her brother. “You don’t want your brother to marry?”

Daniella’s look was flint. “If I wanted to, I could stop it like that!” She snapped her fingers.

“Why would you do that?” Dan said. “They seem happy.”

Her mouth hardened. She looked as though she would answer, but Sebastiano’s voice cut through the air.

“Daniella!” He waved to her to join him and Thom.

Daniella turned and walked past her brother down to the lake. Sebastiano called after her, though she refused to acknowledge him. He gave up and turned to Thom with a shrug.

“Trouble in Paradise?” Dan turned to see Trevor beside him. He’d come up soundlessly behind him again.

“I gather there is not total consent among the Brazilians about this marriage.”

“Really? I wonder if Thom knows about it.”

Dan shrugged. “I guess it can’t be easy for them to accept, coming from a Catholic country.”

Trevor pursed his lips. “Well, they’ve got to learn sometime. They don’t own the world,” he said softly. “Or morality either, for that matter.”

“Cheers to that,” Dan said, finishing his drink. He looked over. “Can I get you a refill?”

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

Trevor’s voice made Dan think of a particular breed of man — confident and content without needing to show it. Men who knew when they needed drinks and when they didn’t. Men who smiled and made others around them feel at ease without giving the least suggestion it was at their behest that they felt so.

In the kitchen, Ted leaned against the range. He still wore his shades, even indoors. “Ah — the sleuth!” He lifted his glass as Dan entered. “Guard your secrets, everyone,” he called out to the empty room.

Dan thought he seemed buzzed, though maybe it was just party energy. Ted followed Dan’s movements as he retrieved a beer and popped the top off, a painter examining a subject for a study or a director blocking moves for a scene.

“So what has my brother told you about our illustrious family?”

He was being ironic, Dan knew. It amused him that both brothers seemed to think themselves important enough to be talked about. “Nothing, really.”

“What?” Ted feigned surprise. “You mean you haven’t heard about the family crest with six emasculated dragons, the silverware rotting in the cupboards, the skeletons in the basement…?”

“I did hear something about your father having disappeared.”

“Oh.” Ted waved a disparaging hand. “Oh, that. Yes, it’s true. The old man up and left us one night, never to be heard from again. It’s old news. It would be a comfort to know he’s actually dead, but what can you do?”

“Well, there are a number of avenues you can follow,” Dan said. “If you’re seriously asking.”

Ted eyed him keenly. “That’s right! You would know. What can you do to find a son-of-a-bitch who upped and left his family? You would know these things, wouldn’t you? Tell me.”

“What have you tried?” Dan said.

Boredom returned to Ted’s face. “The police, of course. The local ones first, then later the Toronto force and even the RCMP, because you can never get what you want from small town cops, can you?” He smiled as though he’d said something amusing then looked at Dan with exaggerated chagrin. “Sorry! Are you a cop? I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Dan shook his head. “I’m not a cop. I’m a missing persons investigator.”

Ted looked confused. “But it’s the same thing, yeah? I mean, you’re practically a cop or something.”

“We’re a totally different breed.”

“Well, good — that’s good,” Ted insisted, without specifying why it was good.

The door opened and Thom came through. He looked from Ted to Dan. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all, dear brother,” Ted replied.

“We were just discussing your father,” Dan said.

“Ah!” Thom removed a beer from the fridge. He kissed Ted’s cheek and patted his shoulder. “My good brother,” he said patronizingly. “Please stay out of trouble, just for this weekend.”

“Of course, dear brother of mine.” Ted snaked an arm around Thom’s shoulder, grinning. One small and dark, the other broad and blond. Seeing them together, Dan would never have suspected they were siblings.

Thom looked at Dan and shrugged. “Brothers — you have to look after them. What can you do?”

Ted nuzzled Thom’s neck. “I am deeply indebted to my brother Thom for … everything. If it weren’t for him, why I’d have nothing at all.” He looked around, taking in the kitchen. “Though by rights this place should be mine. I am the oldest.” He nodded to Dan. “It’s been in the family for about a hundred years. Did you know that?”

“No,” Dan said. “I didn’t.”

Thom shot Ted a hard glance. “Just be careful you don’t end up in the lake again, all right, Teddy?”

Ted laughed. “Never fear, I won’t do anything to embarrass you on your wedding weekend.”

“Thank you.”

Ted left. Thom waited a beat and said, “Excuse my brother’s atrocious behaviour.”

“Not at all. He’s been quite amusing. What’s he done, by the way?”

“To embarrass me?”

“No.” Dan laughed. “I meant, what films has he made?”

“Oh, that! He made a few little films — nothing important. He went to some prestigious film school in New York years ago, but he hasn’t really done anything. He starts things but never finishes them.” He paused and sipped his beer meditatively. “My brother’s a drug addict, in case you haven’t figured that out yet.”

Which explained the buzz and the shades, Dan thought.

“I suppose since I give him his money it’s up to me to make him stop. There’s nothing like a junkie with money to burn.” He looked off in the distance, a pained expression on his face. “My poor, poor mother — a drug addict and a homosexual for sons, and a philandering husband who ran off with another woman. Bad luck for her. She should have stayed a virgin.”

Thom laughed softly and took a long pull on his beer. Dan’s gaze lingered on his profile, the perfectly formed chin and brow. Thom had rolled his sleeves up, exposing his rower’s biceps. It was impossible not to find this man attractive. Dan felt sweat gathering between his pectorals, the skin beneath his shirt. He lifted his beer and went out.

A hazy sunset had accrued by the time Dan returned to the gathering by the lake. Over the mountain, the underbellies of clouds were flecked with pink. He looked up at the house framed against the dying light. He couldn’t recall ever having been in a house owned by the same family for a hundred years. All along the reach were similar places with intricate histories, family secrets — homes with the names and birthdates of forebears embedded in family bibles going back generations. Dan knew its legacy of Protestant industriousness: the women in long dresses with their hair in tidy buns as they worked in the kitchens, the men in black serge over stiff-collars, diligent clerks and tradesmen and day labourers, and the children, seen but not heard, and unsettled by looks that discouraged frivolity. All living life in a way that precluded any indulgence in pleasure, straining after the little that might be allowed them, and looking for salvation in all that was hard-hearted and plain of manner.

It was this same Presbyterian industriousness that had carved a nation out of wood and stone and given thanks to God, grateful for the newfound flag of freedom as they set up gristmills and established schools and churches across the continent, spreading their long-suffering humanity like the walnuts and oranges left in children’s stockings at Christmastime.

In some of the nearby houses, there would be remnants of that life still: the polished walnut tables and stiff-backed chairs so you wouldn’t forget yourself and get too comfy, portraits of men with dour glances and whiskers down to their chests echoing words voiced in stoic endurance, their wary glances and harsh whispers directed toward anything that constituted strangeness in their worlds. It was not a charmed existence, this life led by the followers of Knox and Calvin, but it had a certain magisterial appeal, the very essence of morality and probity, a life where men raised themselves up by hard work and right-minded adherence to the Word of God. Hallowed be thy name.

No communal joyfulness or fervent lifting of voices of the evangelical Baptists, or the hand-wringing Puritanism of the Seventh Day Adventists with one eye on the Second Coming and the other on the ever-present wrath of God. Not the hand-clapping, tambourine-bashing, candle-burning witchery of the Catholics or the Old World, left-behind-for-the-Messiah-already-came-and-wentness, and the one-day-off-the-weekly-calendar Sabbath of misguided Jewry, but the Real Faith, the One True Faith of the new Promised Land. This was the dour, grey-skied heart of Protestant Reform. Johns Knox and Calvin, lead us forward out of sin.

It was a life where good deeds were done quietly and acknowledged humbly, where praise was rare, and roast beef and Yorkshire pudding were served on the Lord’s Day. Where the axe and plough were put away as vests and topcoats were donned for Sunday dinners with abundant echoes of “We praise thee, O Lord,” followed by a murmured chorus of amens as silverware tinkled and dishes were passed with smiles of appreciation and drink was frowned on till the following evening. All this, followed by a brief respite of merry-making as “God Save the King” was sung in the more prominent homes or banged out on the parlour upright by someone’s elderly aunt, followed by fond memories of — how many decades was it now? So hard to recall! — when it had been “God Save the Queen.” May she forever rest in peace!

Dan knew the breed well. His childhood had been a late-twentieth century blossoming of this Calvinist faith with its hard-hearted virtuousness. As he walked across the grass, the light sent up its final rays, the eaves returning to shadow as the day retreated. The house looked like a castle from some far-off shore, replete with memories of lochs and bairns and foreign sounding words like bonnie and didnae and wee nyaff, while the glittering descendants of those hard-hearted, well-intentioned settlers twirled and gyrated on the lawn.

Now and then someone would stop briefly to listen to the hooting of a ferry making a tenuous link between distant worlds as twilight came on, settling over the Bay of Quinte and fading up on the mountain over a lake whose depths and deepest origins remained an unsolved mystery.