Читать книгу Granville Island Mysteries 2-Book Bundle - Michael Blair - Страница 14

I’d magnanimously given Wayne and Mary-Alice Sunday morning off and I was on my own, taking a break after assembling a steel shelving unit, dabbing my barked knuckles with a wad of toilet paper, when Skip Osterman ambled into the new studio. He was carrying two large takeout coffees from the Blue Parrot espresso bar in the Public Market. Skip and his wife Connie operated a deep-sea fishing and charter company out of the Broker’s Bay Marina. Skip was always at loose ends on Sunday mornings when Connie was at church. Otherwise, they were inseparable.

“How’s Bobbi doin’?” he asked as we prised the lids from the coffee containers.

I’d called the hospital for an update before coming to the studio. “The doctor thinks she’ll be waking up any time now,” I said.

“That’s good to hear. The cops have any idea who done it?”

“If they do, they’re not telling me.”

“My money’s on Loth,” he said, blowing on his coffee. He took a cautious sip, sucking it in with a lot of air. “After Bobbi tore him a new one at the public market last month, he was goin’ around cursin’ and swearin’ about how he was goin’ to get even with her some way or another. Maybe he did.” He took another noisy slurp of coffee. “Man, there’s gotta be something we can do about that guy. Bad enough smelling the way he does, but grabbin’ his crotch and makin’ dirty remarks to women. Constable Mabel says there ain’t much they can do. Whenever they talk to him ’cause someone’s complained, he goes on about bein’ a poor sick old man who ain’t never hurt no one. But Christ on a crutch, the other day he’s on the quay and Con is at the wheel on the flyin’ bridge as we’re comin’ in from a charter, two couples from a Calgary church group on the deck, and he yells out at her that she can sit on his face any time, even if she does smell of fish. Con ignored him, but I don’t care if he’s a sick old man, I’ll take a goddamn shark pike to him next time he talks dirty to her.” He scowled and gulped his coffee.

Between them, Skip and Connie knew just about everyone who kept a boat anywhere near Granville Island, so I asked him if he knew the Wonderlust, in particular who the real owners might be.

“I know the boat,” Skip said, “but I got no idea who’s behind the company that owns it. Whoever it is, they’ve let it get badly run down. I thought about maybe makin’ an offer on it, y’know, but Witt DeWalt told me not to bother, that everyone who’s made an offer that’s less than the asking price, and that’s everyone who’s made one, has got blown off. Con figures it’s a tax dodge. They’re happy to sit on it, cover the docking fees by renting it out for parties, in the meantime write it off as a loss until someone comes along dumb enough to pay the asking price.”

“Do you know Sam or Anna Waverley?”

“Seen ’em around. Her more ’n’ him. But that’s it. They have a thirty-eight-foot Sabre they hardly ever use. Good-lookin’ woman, I’ll say that, but Con’s talked to her a couple of times and says she’s not a very happy one. Never seen her smile. I heard she had a run-in herself with Loth a while back. April, I think.” He shrugged. “Name me a woman that hasn’t.”

“What happened?”

“I got it second-hand from Witt DeWalt. Loth was standing at the top of the ramp when Ms. Waverley came along the dock from her boat, dressed for running, and wouldn’t move out of the way when she tried to get past him. When she asked him to let her by, he laughed and called her a whore and said he’d let her by if she — well, you know. She had to squeeze past between him and the railing and Witt figures Loth groped her or pinched her, because she yelped and jumped into the air and called him a filthy pig. He acted like he didn’t know what she was talkin’ about and launched into his usual routine about bein’ a poor sick old man who never hurt nobody. Witt asked her if she wanted to call the cops, but she just said, ‘What good would it do?’ Witt said she was pretty upset, though.”

Skip finished his coffee and looked around for some place to dispose of the cup. I took it from him and tossed it into an overflowing waste bin.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he said, standing.

“Gee, thanks,” I replied.

“Don’t mention it. Y’know, I don’t care if there is something wrong in his head, one o’ these days maybe somebody’s gonna pay that old man a visit where he lives and put the fear into him.”

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“On some old fishing boat in the Harbour Authority marina. According to what I heard, he claims he’s doin’ work on it in exchange for living there, converting it into a yacht, would you believe, but no one I know has ever seen him doin’ any work.”

Art Smelski, the off-duty paramedic who’d fished Bobbi out of False Creek, was refurbishing an old fishing boat he kept in the False Creek Harbour Authority marina. It was a common enough pastime, I supposed. Given the sorry state of the commercial fishing industry, you could pick up old fishing boats for a song. Nevertheless, I asked Skip if it was Art Smelski’s boat Loth was supposed to be renovating.

“No,” Skip said. “The boat Loth lives on belongs to a fella name of Marshall Duckworth. Some kind o’ hotshot lawyer that works for an organization that gets people who’ve been wrongly convicted out of prison — whether they’re innocent or not,” he added. “Con knows him and his wife from her church.” He looked at his watch, a big waterproof chronometer with a rotating bezel and more dials and knurled knobs than my father’s old shortwave radio. “Speakin’ of which, they should be lettin’ out about now. Gotta go.”

A few minutes after Skip left, Constable Mabel Firth and her partner walked in, both in street clothes, but armed, with their badges in plain view. They looked less bulky and imposing in plain clothes — when in uniform they wore Kevlar vests — but they both wore serious, business-like expressions, so I knew immediately it was not a social call.

“We came by to give you a heads-up,” Mabel said. “Detective Kovacs is mightily annoyed with you. Can’t say I blame him. What the heck were you doing at Anna Waverley’s house last night, anyway?”

“Having a very nice time, thank you,” I replied, which caused Mabel to scowl darkly and Baz Tucker to shake his head in dismay at my irreverent attitude. “I wanted to talk to her about what happened to Bobbi,” I added.

“That much we figured out for ourselves,” Mabel said.

“How do you know I was there, by the way? Who are you watching? Her or me?”

“Her. Until we track down the woman who hired you, or the fellow who paid you a visit at your studio, she’s our only lead. A slim one, I’ll admit, but dollars to jelly doughnuts it wasn’t a coincidence that the woman who hired you used her name.”

“She’s not a suspect, is she?” I said.

She shook her head. “A potential material witness at least. She says she was at the marina that night around nine, maybe she saw something. She claims she didn’t, but Kovacs has a suspicious nature. He figures there’s a reasonable probability that she knows who attacked Bobbi, maybe even witnessed the attack, but for some reason isn’t talking. He figures it’s likely because she’s afraid that whoever hurt Bobbi will come after her. What was your take on her? Could she be afraid of someone?”

“I didn’t get that impression,” I said.

“What sort of impression did you get?” Mabel asked.

“Of an intelligent, very lonely and very unhappy woman,” I said.

“Do you think she’s telling the truth about being at the marina that night?”

“What do you mean? Why would she lie about being there?”

“The thing is,” Mabel said, “no one remembers seeing her. It’s a busy area, even at that time of day. Our canvass hasn’t turned up anyone who saw her along her usual running route that night, either.”

“You’re thinking maybe she wasn’t there?” I said.

“It’s a possibility we have to consider.”

“I don’t get it. Why say she was if she wasn’t?”

“Search me,” Mabel said. “On the other hand, maybe she was there, but didn’t want to be seen, so she said she was there just in case she was spotted.”

I shook my head. Someone, maybe Greg Matthias or Mabel, had once told me that the first rule of police work was to keep it simple, that the most obvious explanation for something was usually the right one. “No one saw Bobbi, either, right?”

“Yeah,” Mabel said. “Look, Tom, I know you. You’re inclined to always think the best of people, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but how has it worked out for you?”

“It hasn’t always been good for my insurance rates,” I agreed.

“Cops, particularly detectives, but street cops, too, have a tendency to be more realistic, pessimistic, even.”

“No,” I said, with mock incredulity.

“You said Anna Waverley was intelligent …”

“Yes,” I said.

“While your average crook isn’t all that bright, some are brighter than others. The smartest ones stick as close to the truth as possible, even if it means admitting to something that might be construed as circumstantially incriminating. A robbery suspect admitting to being in the vicinity of a robbery, for instance. They know it’s not half as damaging as getting caught in an outright lie.”

“So what you’re saying is that Anna Waverley admitted to being at the marina because she’s afraid to be caught in a lie if you do find someone who saw her there?”

“She also admits to having been at a party on the Wonderlust at least once, which would account for her fingerprints, if they’re found. Kovacs doesn’t believe she’s responsible for Bobbi’s beating, but he’s sure she knows more than she’s saying.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t have an opinion,” Mabel replied diplomatically. “I’ve never met her. I should know better than to encourage you, but what do you think? Could she have been involved?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “She told me she doesn’t know anything about it.”

“And you’re inclined to believe her?”

“More than just inclined,” I said. “I do believe her …”

“But …”

“I’ve been wrong before …”

“But …” Mabel prompted again, a little more firmly.

“Well …” I said.

“For Pete’s sake, Tom,” Mabel said. “What?”

“I think she might meet with her lover on the Wonderlust,” I said, with a twinge of something that felt like guilt.

Mabel’s eyebrows went up. Baz grunted softly. Neither of them was half as surprised as I was, though. I didn’t like the direction my thoughts were taking me. It felt as though I was being disloyal to her, which was just plain silly; I hardly knew her. Nevertheless, I liked her and didn’t want to believe that she’d had anything to do with Bobbi’s attack.

“You think that maybe Bobbi interrupted them and lover-boy beat the crap out of her and dumped her in False Creek,” Baz said, more than a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“Something like that, I guess.”

“How do you know she even has a lover?” Mabel said.

“She told me her marriage was a sham and that she was having affairs she didn’t want with lovers she didn’t like. She’s had five lovers since she got married, she said, so there’s a good chance she has one now.”

“You work fast, don’t you?” Mabel said. “You knock on the woman’s door and the next thing you know she’s telling you all about her marriage and her lovers. Kovacs isn’t going to like this. He isn’t exactly Mr. Charm, but he’s a good interviewer. All he got out of her in an hour was her running schedule. Why did she spill her guts to you?”

“Well, she did drink almost two full bottles of wine in under three hours,” I said.

Mabel groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with her.”

“I didn’t sleep with her.”

She breathed a sigh. “Sorry,” she said.

“It’s all right. Forget it.”

“You liked her, though.”

“Yes,” I said. “Quite a lot. But I also feel, well, sorry for her. As I said, she’s a very unhappy lady.”

“Kovacs says she’s very attractive. Your track record with attractive women is not great, Tom. Your track record with very attractive women is even worse.”

“Thanks. It’s good to have friends who will tell you exactly like it is. Keeps you humble.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe she was playing me. I don’t like to think so, but …” I shrugged. When I’d left her house the night before, I’d been certain that she hadn’t had anything to do with Bobbi’s assault. Likewise, the following morning. However, it was as if she’d cast some kind of spell on me, but it had finally worn off and I could think clearly again. I still didn’t want to believe she’d lied to me, and maybe she hadn’t, strictly speaking, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d played me like the proverbial fiddle.

“I don’t suppose she told you her lover’s name or anything that might help us identify him.”

“No.”

Mabel jotted something in her notebook. “Was she able to shed any light on who may have impersonated her?”

“No.”

“Or why someone would pose as her to hire you to take photographs of the Wonderlust?”

“No …”

“But …?” Mabel said, drawing the word out to indicate her impatience.

“I asked her if she thought it might have had something to do with her husband or his business. She thought the idea was ridiculous, that her husband is a very dull man in a very dull business. Then she asked me if I liked her kitchen.”

“Like she was trying to change the subject?”

“I didn’t think so at the time, but, yeah, I think that’s exactly what she was doing. She’s very good at it.”

“Okay, so you do think she might know more than she’s telling?” Mabel suggested.

“I don’t know,” I said, then added, “Yes, I think she does.”

“You seem disappointed.”

“I guess I am.” I thought about it for a moment, then said, “Look, what if she did meet her lover at the marina? She’s there often enough. Maybe it’s a regular thing.”

“Are you suggesting that faux Anna Waverley hired you to interrupt real Anna’s little tryst?”

“To hear you say it, it does sound farfetched,” I said. “If faux Anna just wanted someone to interrupt real Anna and her lover, why not just have a pizza delivered?”

“Or call the cops and report a domestic disturbance,” Baz said.

“Besides,” I said, “wouldn’t she be more likely to meet her lover on her own boat? Why on the Wonderlust?”

“I might be able to answer that one,” Mabel said. “Many women don’t like to make love with another man in the same bed they share with their husbands — or that their lovers share with their wives.” I wondered if she was speaking from experience.

“Okay,” I said. “But that still doesn’t explain why someone posed as her to hire me to photograph it.” I thought about it for a moment, then said, “What if …?”

“What if what?” Mabel asked.

I thought about it some more, then said, “What if Bobbi’s attack had nothing to do with the real Anna Waverley? What if it we were hired to do a legitimate job, but for, well, ultimately nefarious purposes? What if the faux Anna really wanted photographs of the Wonderlust and someone saw Bobbi go aboard, followed her, and assaulted her? Maybe someone who wanted to steal the photographic gear or hijack the van.”

“Okay,” Mabel said. “But it doesn’t explain faux Anna’s ‘ultimately nefarious purposes,’ as you put it. Why did she want photos of the boat?”

“I dunno. Maybe she’s a nautical designer and the Wonderlust has a particularly innovative or unique design she wants to steal.” Mabel made a face and Baz Tucker sniffed. I tried again. “Maybe she was planning to steal the boat, but didn’t want to be seen hanging around the marina casing the job, so she hired us to do it for her with photos.”

Mabel shook her head, but said, “All right, let’s say you’re right, in theory, anyway. Why pose as Anna Waverley?”

“Maybe she called herself Anna Waverley in case we checked in at the marina office for permission to go onto the docks. Normally, the gate is supposed to be locked. Boat owners can get touchy about unauthorized people wandering around on the docks.” I was struggling; it was starting to get too complicated.

Mabel scribbled in her notebook while Baz Tucker looked over her shoulder. She looked at him. He shrugged. She looked at me.

“Not bad,” she said. “I’m not sure Kovacs will buy it, though, even at a discount. He’s convinced you’re holding out on him, that Bobbi was attacked by someone out to get you and/or her and that you probably know who. Your visit to Anna Waverley’s house didn’t help. He’s going to turn over a load of rocks to see if you’ve had any prior contact with her. Have you?”

“No. I never laid eyes on her before last night.”

“What about her husband?”

“Him, either.”

“Okay. I’ll run it past him, see what he thinks. He’s going to want to talk to you about Anna Waverley. Don’t expect him to be happy about you sticking your nose in his case.”

Mabel and Baz left and I went back to work. I tried to ignore the nagging sense of guilt at telling Mabel and Baz about my conversation with Anna Waverley, but as much as I liked her — or thought I liked her — it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that she may have been manipulating me. As Mabel had pointed out, manipulating me wasn’t a terribly difficult task for an even moderately attractive woman, let alone one as lovely and apparently vulnerable as Anna Waverley. I didn’t like the idea that I could be that easily played, and it made me a little angry, although I wasn’t sure who I was angry with, Anna Waverley or myself. Nevertheless, I felt as though I’d betrayed her and I did not feel good about myself for it.

Mary-Alice arrived, and shortly thereafter, D. Wayne Fowler, bearing lunch: fish and chips for himself, a veggie wrap for Mary-Alice, and a bacon cheeseburger for me. After lunch, we set up the portrait studio, the digital studio camera, and started work on the darkroom. At four o’clock the phone rang.