Читать книгу A Killing Frost - Margaret Haffner - Страница 10

‘Let me look at you.’ Catherine studied her daughter, head cocked to one side. ‘Don’t you think that skirt’s a little short?’

‘It’s the style,’ Morgan replied impatiently. ‘And besides, what about you? Should you wear pants the first day on the job?’ She ran a critical eye over her mother. The hair rinse she’d talked her into using covered the grey threads and made her look younger. And she was very slim – they both were. They hadn’t felt like eating over the summer.

‘You know I prefer comfort to style,’ Catherine replied.

‘Yeah, but I don’t.’ Morgan flicked her skirt and pointed a fashionably shod toe. She headed for the door. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

They climbed into their ancient Datsun which sputtered a few times, then coughed into life. Sometimes Catherine wondered if she were being silly, refusing to drive Paul’s Volvo but she just couldn’t bring herself to use it. She couldn’t even see a Volvo without a wave of depression overtaking her. ‘I think the school’s on this side of town,’ she said, ‘so you won’t have too far to walk.’

At the school Catherine tapped lightly on the vice-principal’s door and a rich, feminine voice invited them to come in.

Mrs Beneteau walked forward to greet them, smoothing her blue gaberdine skirt over her ample hips. Morgan’s set expression relaxed a little in the warmth of the vice-principal’s smile. ‘Nice to meet you, Morgan,’ she said, shaking the girl’s hand firmly. ‘I’ll have Mr Enright, the art teacher, show you around the school while your mother fills out the forms. I think you’ll find our facilities excellent despite the fact we’re a small school.’

Mr Enright, a plump young man bearing an uncanny resemblance to Winnie the Pooh, appeared in the doorway. ‘Pleased to meet you, Morgan,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘If you come with me, we’ll start with the art room. It’s my kingdom.’

After a nervous glance at her mother, Morgan followed her guide.

‘Now,’ said Mrs Beneteau, sitting down behind her desk, ‘let’s get the paperwork done and then we can have a chat. I like to get to know my students’ parents.’ She motioned Catherine to a chair. ‘It’s too bad Morgan’s father couldn’t come with you.’

That too familiar constriction formed in Catherine’s breast but she ignored it. ‘He had to stay in Kingsport,’ she replied without elaborating.

Mrs Beneteau couldn’t miss her visitor’s tension. ‘Are you and Mr Edison divorced?’

‘In the process,’ Catherine said repressively. ‘Morgan doesn’t like to talk about her father at the moment.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Beneteau in a voice which implied disbelief. Catherine knew the woman thought it was she who didn’t want to talk about him, not Morgan. She didn’t defend herself, turning instead to fill in the questionnaire in front of her.

‘We’ve received Morgan’s records from Kingsport District High School,’ the vice-principal commented, indicating the folder on her desk. ‘She seems to be an excellent student, though her last term marks slipped quite a bit … Marital breakup often adversely affects the children.’ The woman’s sharp eyes bored into Catherine’s defiant ones.

‘So I’ve heard,’ Catherine replied and clamped her lips shut on a cutting remark the woman didn’t deserve. Morgan’s marks were marvellous under the circumstances.

Mrs Beneteau felt the chill and reverted to small talk. ‘I hope you’ll like Atawan. We’re a close-knit community but we welcome newcomers.’ She noted Catherine’s Ph.D. and profession on the form Catherine had thrust at her. ‘Especially people like you and your daughter.’ She laced her fingers together and rested her hands on the desk. ‘Do you and Morgan enjoy swimming?’

Catherine nodded.

‘We have a new municipal pool and they run classes for everyone. It’s becoming the action centre of the town.’

‘I’ll have to check it out,’ Catherine replied, relaxing into her chair. ‘Where is it?’

‘On Bridge Street … not far from where you’re living, in fact,’ the vice-principal replied, glancing back down at the form. ‘I see you’ve rented the Tomachuk place.’ She noticed the confusion on her visitor’s face. ‘The three-storey brick house with the belt of trees behind it.’

Catherine nodded. ‘That’s it.’

‘It was a shame the place stayed empty for so long.’ Mrs Beneteau shook her head. ‘But some people are so superstitious.’

‘Superstitious? About what?’ Catherine’s hackles rose. ‘What’s wrong with the house?’

Before the vice-principal could answer, Mr Enright and Morgan returned. Morgan was smiling in a way Catherine hadn’t seen in a long time and her eyes had lost the haunted, guarded expression they always held among company. Catherine let the subject of the house drop. ‘So, Morgan, do you like the school?’ she asked instead.

The girl nodded. ‘If everyone is as kind as Mr Enright has been …’

Mrs Beneteau came forward. ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy all your classes, Morgan. We have an excellent teaching staff and very good facilities.’

‘Thanks very much,’ Catherine said, rising to shake hands with the vice-principal and the art teacher. ‘Morgan will be here bright and early Tuesday morning.’

Mrs Beneteau waited until she heard the outer door bang shut before turning to her colleague. ‘They’ve rented the Tomachuk house.’

Peter Enright let out a low whistle. ‘That girl, Morgan, seems like the nervous type to me. Hope she’s not too spooked when she finds out about the house.’

‘Her mother’s uptight, too.’ Mrs Beneteau’s lips thinned. ‘She’s hiding something … didn’t want to talk about her husband.’

Enright shrugged. ‘Messy break-up, probably. Happens all the time.’

‘Maybe …’

‘That wasn’t so bad was it?’ Catherine commented as they climbed into the car. ‘Now we’ll see what’s downtown.’ But as she pulled away from the kerb the car sputtered and died. ‘Damn.’ She turned the key again and again while stomping on the accelerator. Her only reward was a mechanical sigh.

Suppressing the very colourful language which sprang to her lips, she sat back and calmed herself. One more try, then she’d admit defeat. She rubbed her sweaty palms on the worn seat, sat straight and slowly turned the key. The engine caught easily, as if it had never balked. ‘Eureka,’ she breathed in relief.

‘We’ve got to get a new car,’ Morgan complained. ‘I can’t be seen in this crate.’

‘Nonsense, it just needs a tune-up,’ Catherine replied, gunning the motor.

They pulled up to the stop sign at the main street. ‘At least there’s a garage in town,’ Morgan commented, pointing to the far corner. As they waited for a car to pass, they watched a tall, blond man hose down the windows of the garage.

‘It was all boarded up when I was here house hunting,’ Catherine said. ‘Looks like Royce’s Garage is opening again.’

The car belched and shuddered. ‘Maybe you should drive in there right now.’

‘I need the car to get to work this afternoon, but while you check out the stores I’ll make an appointment at the garage.’ Catherine parked in front of the Bank of Montreal. ‘I’ve got to go to the bank and the post office as well. Shall we meet back here in an hour?’

‘OK,’ Morgan agreed reluctantly. The girl scanned the stores without enthusiasm. ‘An hour will be plenty of time.’ She got out of the car and Catherine watched her saunter down the hot sidewalk.

Ed Royce coiled up the hose and stowed it at the side of the empty service bay. A year ago, the garage was never empty – it had buzzed twelve hours a day with the noise of machines as he and his two assistants repaired the cars of Atawan. He had made a name as an honest mechanic and people drove from all over the county to seek his services.

Ed frowned as his footsteps echoed in the garage. How long would it take to rebuild his business – if he could do it at all? He went over to the sink to wash his hands. As the warm water poured over his fingers, he studied his nails. They were clean. Gaol had done that for him. Close to a year without touching oil and grease, dirty engines and well-used tools had accomplished what no amount of soap and water could do. For the first time since he’d begun monkeying around with his old jalopy at age sixteen, his hands were clean. He longed for the feel of grease under his nails.

He tucked in his shirt, then ran his hand over his hair. After glancing critically at his work boots, he stooped to wipe away a streak of dirt. ‘You’re procrastinating,’ he told himself as he straightened. ‘It’s coffee time.’

Squinting, he stepped into the sunshine and stood on the kerb waiting for a break in the traffic. Wiping his damp palms on his jeans, he crossed the road and ducked into the shade cast by the awning of the café. He hesitated and his pulse beat faster. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and opened the door.

The restaurant looked the same as it had the last time he’d been there, ten months before. Cardboard fishing boats on a plastic ocean and nets made from kitchen twine evoked a tawdry nautical flavour. He glanced at the table in the corner, the one under the plastic lobster, and suppressed a shudder. He’d been sitting at that very table eating a hot turkey sandwich when the police came for him. The fork was still in his hand when the handcuffs closed on his wrists with the snap of doom. Now Ed resisted the urge to rub his wrists and sauntered over to the counter where Mavis Bigelow was wiping the formica surface with a grey dishcloth. Even this scrap of towelling looked the same, as did the pink skirt and blouse which hugged her generously proportioned body. But when Mavis looked up, Ed was jolted back to the present. Instead of the friendly smile he remembered, an expression of fear twisted her painted, forty-year-old features.

‘Hello, Mavis.’ Even to Ed’s own ears his voice had a strained edge.

‘You!’ Mavis backed away, her hand at her throat. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Getting coffee.’ Ed pointed to his watch. ‘Ten o’clock – my usual time.’

‘Not any more, it isn’t,’ snarled a voice from behind him.

Ed whirled around. ‘Barry … I didn’t see you there.’

Barry advanced like a storm front, his meaty fists held like a boxer’s before him, his bow legs splayed apart at every step. ‘You stay away from my sister.’

‘But –’

‘We don’t serve murderers in here.’

‘I’m no murderer and I’ve proven it in a court of law.’ Ed’s voice cracked as it slid up the scale. ‘I didn’t kill Tracy.’

‘We know different. Those legal folk don’t know nothin’.’

Ed retreated before Barry’s threatening right, unable to take his eyes off the dancing paw.

‘It was your blond, pretty-boy looks that got you off. That and your lady lawyer making eyes at the judge. I know, I was there at court a couple of days. I seen you.’

Ed had never been called a pretty boy before – only an ugly bull of a man like Barry would have considered him one. The restaurant owner used to remind Ed of a teddy bear but now the image of a grizzly flashed in his mind.

‘Come on, Barry.’ He’d backed up until the edge of the counter dug into his spine. ‘It’s me, Ed. The guy you played poker with, the one who’s bought coffee and doughnuts from you every day for four years.’ He held his hands out, palms up, offering peace. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mavis wide-eyed at the far end of the counter.

‘Let me get him his coffee, Barry, then he’ll go away,’ she squeaked.

Neither of the men paid any attention. Barry’s projecting jaw quivered with rage. ‘Me and Tracy were good friends – very good friends – till you came along and busted us up –’

‘That’s not true.’ Ed knew that when Tracy had split from her husband she’d gone out with Barry once or twice but that had been before he’d come to Atawan. Tracy had told Ed she was afraid of Barry’s temper and now he could see why. He felt like a jelly fish confronted by a shark.

Barry ignored Ed’s interjection. ‘– then when she got tired of you, you killed her.’

The fist hovered inches from Ed’s nose. He slid along the counter. ‘Forget the coffee.’ Only pride kept his exit from looking like a complete rout.

Two of her errands completed, Catherine walked along the street towards the record store. The morning was already hot and humid and she clung to the narrow band of shade near the buildings. In her mind she replayed a snatch of her conversation at the bank. Everything had gone smoothly. The young woman at the ‘new accounts’ desk had been smiling warmly as she took down the details. ‘Address?’ she had asked.

‘317 Elm Street,’ Catherine replied.

The woman’s smile froze. ‘Is that the Tomachuk house?’

‘Yes.’ By now, Catherine knew the answer to this question. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ the teller said hastily. ‘It has been vacant quite a while …’ She rustled the papers in front of her. ‘Telephone number?’

What was wrong with ‘The Tomachuk house’, Catherine wondered. Her musing lasted until she arrived at the door of the long narrow music shop. A bell tinkled as she opened the door and ducked into the cool gloom. After the brilliant sunshine outside, she blinked a few times until her eyes grew accustomed to the lower light. A rustling to her left attracted her attention and she saw a smiling face pop up from behind the low counter. ‘May I help you?’

‘Well … I thought I’d just look around first.’

‘Take your time.’ Still looking very short behind the counter, he gestured at the rows and rows of tapes and compact discs. ‘Alphabetical by composer.’

Catherine smiled her thanks and turned to the racks. It didn’t take her long to discover that Albert’s Arpeggio carried only classical music. Heaven, she thought, and wandered along the aisles scanning the extensive collection. He even stocked a complete set of Dmitri Shostakovich symphonies and she finally chose the number eleven and took it to the desk.

The smiling elf with the thick glasses tapped the tape with his forefinger. ‘Good choice. Did you know Carl Sagan chose this music to represent the immensity and wonder of space in his television series Cosmos?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ As he manoeuvred his wheelchair to the cash register, Catherine understood why he looked so short.

‘It was a great series,’ he continued. ‘You should watch it when it comes on again.’ He rang up the sale and she handed over the money. ‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ he said as he shoved the cash drawer shut. ‘I’m Albert Terron. I own this little oasis of culture in the desert of philistines.’

She shook his proffered hand. ‘Catherine Edison.’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘Just passing through?’

‘I’m going to be at Agromics for a few months.’

‘Great. You’ll like it here.’ He laughed. ‘And I really didn’t mean what I said about the philistines. It’s just that not too many of the good folks of Atawan appreciate real music. They want Garth Brooks and Tammy Wynette. And the kids want Def Leppard or 2 Live Crew. Or Megadeath.’ He shook his head and sighed.

Catherine smiled in sympathy. ‘I must say I was surprised to find such a wonderful store here.’

Albert laughed again, the crow’s-feet at the edges of his blue eyes deepening. ‘I get mostly mail-order business. I actually have quite an extensive clientele.’

Catherine picked up her parcel. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised.

‘Drop in any time,’ Albert replied. ‘I love to chat about music. Or spread gossip.’ His laughter followed her out of the store.

The heat pressed down on her and sweat dampened her armpits as she made her way to Royce’s Garage. The blond man had disappeared and the two service bays, doors open wide, stood empty except for the expected paraphernalia. She approached the customer entrance and tried the door. It was unlocked so she poked her head in. ‘Hello? Anyone home?’

The blond man jumped up from behind the counter accompanied by a clatter of falling pens and pencils. Catherine could have sworn it was fear she saw in his blue eyes for the split second before he gained control and began stuffing the pens into the pocket of his shirt. Embroidered on the pocket was the name Ed Royce. The proprietor, she wondered?

‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’ The man cleared his throat and brushed his hand over his hair. ‘What can I do for you?’

Catherine shifted from one foot to the other. ‘My car’s been acting up lately. I wanted to make an appointment for it …’ Her voice trailed off as she recalled the empty service bays.

Ed laughed without humour and flipped through his blank appointment book. ‘Let’s see when I can fit you in …’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Whenever is most convenient for you. Now, if you’d like.’

‘I need the car this afternoon. Maybe I should wait till tomorrow.’

Ed scratched his head. ‘Tell you what. Let me have a look. If it’s something simple I’ll fix it now but if it’s going to be a long job you can bring the car back in the morning.’ He came around the end of the counter. ‘Where is it at the moment?’

‘Just down the block. I’ll get it.’ She hurried out of the stuffy office into the sauna outside.

Ed stood in the doorway where the harsh sunlight accentuated the new lines in his narrow face. His first customer since he’d reopened and she wasn’t a local. Figured. When would his old customers come back? Would they come back?

While the mechanic had his hands buried in the bowels of her old car, Catherine found Morgan in the only dress shop in town and took her to wait in the coffee shop. Its décor made the teenager smirk but, while Catherine agreed with her, she hushed her daughter. ‘We can’t go ridiculing everything we see. Atawan isn’t Kingsport, but then Kingsport must seem pretty primitive to people from Toronto or Montreal. Everything is relative, Morgan.’

‘Relatively dismal.’ The girl stirred her ice cubes with a straw while her mother toyed with a coffee spoon. ‘How long is the car going to take?’

Catherine shrugged. ‘An hour, maybe. Could be a little more. I told him I needed it by one o’clock.’ She brushed her hair back from her damp forehead. ‘You can walk home if you want …’ She looked inquiringly at her daughter.

‘I’m going to stay here where it’s air conditioned.’ Morgan reached for the canvas bag at her feet. ‘We can read the magazines I bought.’

Although she held her magazine in front of her, Catherine couldn’t concentrate on it. Her mind flitted from subject to subject and too many of them were unpleasant. To distract herself she studied her surroundings and mentally cringed at the maritime ‘look’. She turned back to the magazine. In a few minutes she’d order lunch.

As she looked up again, two men entering the restaurant caught her attention. They chose a table near by and she recognized the older, heavily built one as Ernie Grant, the real estate agent who’d arranged her house rental. He either didn’t see her or didn’t recognize her as he went by and then sat down with his back to her. Catherine didn’t advertise her presence. It had been a long time since she had felt sociable.

From where she sat she had a good view of the real estate agent’s companion, a tall, slim man in his late thirties. His thick thatch of wavy red hair curled over his high forehead and stuck out like the prow of a ship. It contrasted sharply with Ernie Grant’s bald pate. But as she watched the younger man, her stomach somersaulted. Although his face and hair were totally different, his general mien and the way he drummed his fingers on the table reminded her of her husband, Paul. She squeezed her eyes shut and looked away.

‘Something wrong, Mom?’ Morgan asked, peeking over her pages.

‘Not at all, honey.’ She was glad Morgan couldn’t see the man. ‘Go back to your reading for a few minutes, then we’ll order some food.’

Catherine’s eyes seemed to move of their own volition as again her gaze rested on her husband’s doppelgänger. She began straining to hear his voice. Was it, too, like Paul’s? Filtering out the extraneous noise, she concentrated on the conversation at the other table.

‘… get going on the development as soon as you can sell me the Tomachuk property,’ Grant was saying.

Catherine started, knocking her spoon against her saucer.

‘Don’t say that. I don’t own the land, remember,’ the other man growled. His voice was lower than Paul’s.

‘OK, OK.’ Grant fluttered his hand placatingly. ‘But you control the kid’s trust fund. If you consider the sale a good idea you can go ahead with it.’

The waitress interrupted the conversation to take their orders. The younger man ordered a salad while Grant, the heavyweight, ordered a burger and fries with gravy. The unknown man’s gaze roamed around to Catherine who quickly lowered her eyes and stirred the dregs of her coffee but her attention didn’t waver.

‘Will the old house stay or will you be bulldozing it for the subdivision?’ the man asked, returning his attention to the real estate agent.

‘Bulldoze it likely,’ Grant replied. ‘No one wants to live there. The only way I could lease it at all was to let it go for a pitiful rent. Even then, only a stranger was interested.’

The conversation drifted on to property values in general and Catherine was left in suspense. What was going on? What was wrong with the house she’d rented? Glancing at Morgan, she was relieved to see her daughter was oblivious to everything but her fashion magazine. She tapped her lightly on the arm. ‘Shall we order now?’

With lunch time fast approaching, the restaurant filled up and Catherine and her daughter were immersed in the hum of conversation. They were just finishing their dessert when she noticed the background clatter fade and die. She looked around. What was happening?

All eyes were turned, either boldly or surreptitiously, towards the door. When she craned around she saw Ed Royce silhouetted against the sunlight. He stood still for a moment and then slowly moved into the restaurant, letting the door close silently behind him. Catherine noted the tightness around his mouth. He blinked every few seconds as he scanned the room. Catherine’s heart sank when his gaze came to rest on her. Involuntarily she tightened her grip on her fork.

Ed took a deep breath and began threading his way among the tables, his stare fixed on Catherine like a drowning man on a life ring. As he passed, the diners drew away as if he had a contagious disease. Catherine watched in disbelief. Why was she, who desired anonymity above all things, being singled out? To her eyes it took an eternity for him to approach, each step played in slow motion. He stopped beside her table. The room held its collective breath. Catherine’s stare avoided his eyes, fixing on the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

Ed swallowed. ‘Your car is ready, ma’am.’ He licked his lips. ‘You can pick it up whenever you like.’

Catherine goggled at him, a caricature of a smile pasted on her face as the ordinariness of the message caught her off guard. ‘Um … OK … um … Thanks,’ she stammered. ‘I’ll be over shortly.’ She watched the man walk through the silence and disappear out of the door. As it closed behind him a bear of a man hurled himself from the kitchen brandishing a knife. ‘Where is he? I told him never to come back!’

A babble of voices chased away the tense silence and eventually the ursine man lumbered back to the kitchen. Catherine, straining to make sense of the jabbering, sat immobile.

‘Mom?’ Morgan whispered. ‘What was that all about?’

Catherine dragged her attention back to her daughter. ‘Our car is fixed,’ she replied.

‘I know, but why was everyone staring at him?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Catherine rose and gathered up their belongings. ‘But it’s time for us to leave.’

They felt eyes boring into their backs as they made their way to the desk and paid the bill. A few fragments of conversation rose above the general roar. ‘… got his nerve …’ ‘… as cool as you please …’ ‘… not wanted around here …’

‘Now what?’ Morgan asked, fanning herself with Seventeen magazine as the wall of heat greeted them.

‘We get the car and go home. I’ve had enough of Atawan for one day.’ The Datsun was parked in front of the garage. ‘Do you want to wait in the car while I pay?’

Morgan nodded and climbed in. ‘It’s hot in here so don’t be too long.’

Catherine pushed her hair off her forehead and marched into the office.

The proprietor, his face pale and damp, waited for her in the stifling gloom. ‘Your car needs a good tune-up, Mrs Edison, but I think that’s all that’s wrong with it.’ He swallowed and blinked. ‘I changed the plugs and points and cleaned up the carburettor, but when you’ve more time you should have the timing done and the hoses and oil filter changed.’

‘I will,’ Catherine assured him. ‘What do I owe you?’

Ed smoothed the invoice in front of him and then handed it to her. ‘Most of it’s for parts,’ he mumbled defensively.

Catherine fumbled in her purse and retrieved the new pad of cheques she had received at the bank. In the upper left corner she wrote her new address before filling out the rest. She pushed the cheque across the counter.

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ he said, glancing down at the piece of paper. He let out an involuntary gasp and his hand shook as he stuffed the cheque into his cash drawer.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Ed stammered, licking his dry lips yet again.

She leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the counter. ‘It’s where I live, isn’t it? The Tomachuk place.’ This time she wasn’t going to be put off.

Ed nodded jerkily.

‘What’s wrong with it? Everyone’s acting strange as soon as they find out.’

‘Ed dropped into the swivel chair behind him. Catherine watched the tension pull his face into harsh planes. At last he cleared his throat. ‘A woman was murdered there.’

If there had been a chair on her side of the counter, she would have collapsed into it. As it was, she slumped against the counter. More death. Would she never escape?

Her reaction forced Ed to elaborate. ‘The woman who owned the place – Tracy Tomachuk – was killed ten months ago.’

Catherine looked at him, confronting his darkened blue eyes. ‘Did they find out who did it?’

The silence stretched taut. ‘No.’

A bluebottle fly buzzed against the freshly washed window. ‘How did she die?’

‘Strangled.’

Catherine fingered her neck. She again felt those fingers squeezing away her life. She stared at Ed but didn’t see him. Ed leaned forward. ‘Are you OK?’ Her obvious distress forced him out of his own misery.

‘I’m fine …’ Catherine smiled mechanically, then walked from the office like an automaton, but by the time she got back to the car she had carefully erased the shock from her face.

‘I’ve got to leave for work now,’ she told her daughter as she pulled into the driveway. ‘I told Martha I’d be there early afternoon.’ They went in and she gathered up her boxes of papers and her desktop computer. Morgan helped her haul them out to the car. ‘Will you be OK?’

‘Fine.’ Morgan yawned. ‘Think I’ll have a nap.’ Catherine watched her disappear into the house, then backed out of the drive.

She headed the car east towards the research facility twenty-five miles away. She had been to the place once before to visit her old colleague Martha Morin, and had found the atmosphere both intellectually stimulating and emotionally soothing. Must be the pastoral setting, she mused, hoping the murder of Tracy Tomachuk was a one-time intrusion from the big bad world.