“The same instrument used on each one?”
“Yes.”
“A butcher, maybe.”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” said Laforet. “Definitely someone experienced with this sort of thing.”
“Post-mortem?”
Laforet wiped his hands clean and took a deep breath.
“No. So, not murders.”
“Mutilations. But what if they bled to death afterward?” said Campbell. “How long would a wound like that take to heal?”
“With care, and barring any complications, wounds begin healing right away, but a victim wouldn’t be out of the danger zone for a few days. No one has checked into the hospitals recently with a wound like this. It would be a couple of weeks to completely heal, again, unless there was infection.”
“So I’m looking for three men, each less an arm, or three similar bodies.”
“That about sums it up.” Laforet pulled the sheet back over the limbs.
“How recently?”
“The freshest one is no more than three, maybe four days old by my estimation. I’m sorry, I’ll know better after I’ve run a few more tests.”
“As far as problems go,” Campbell said with a sigh, hands on his hips, “that one’s okay.”
“Now what about the crate?” said Laforet.
Campbell walked over to it. “Originally one of Chung Hong’s and later, it would seem, to have been used by McCloskey’s salvage business.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean they were the last ones in possession of it.”
“No, no it doesn’t. What were they packed with? Straw?” Campbell went over and started pulling out the packing. “It’s all straw … I’m catching a whiff of stable.”
“I picked that up, too.”
“And motor oil?”
“Mm hm.”
“Well, it looks like I have a few people to question. Can the crate stay here?”
“Of course.”
Campbell was already walking back to his hat. “Are we still on for tomorrow morning?”
“Ah, thank you for reminding me,” said Laforet. “Yes, at eleven sharp.”
“Shall I bring anything?”
“Can you get your hands on a bottle of sherry?”
Campbell didn’t answer; he just pushed his way through the swinging doors.
— Chapter 8 —
LEW TO THE RESCUE
Saturday, August 4
“Lew … you’re not going to believe this.” Vera Maude was only inches inside the door at Copeland’s and still fumbling through it — her purse strap caught in the door handle — when she said this loud enough for Lew to hear from the back counter. Heads turned. She was early for her shift because she was anxious to bend Lew’s ear. She clipped the corner of a table and sent a few copies of This Freedom onto the floor. She bent to pick them up and a couple of gentlemen watched. Finished, she slapped the exposed sides of the stack back into right angles and, completing her obstacle course, finally reached the back counter.
“I know,” said Lew calmly while re-spooling some gift wrap ribbon, “the president’s dead.”
“What?” said Vera Maude. She was still catching her breath. “I just saw him.” She pulled up the slack in her shoe straps.
“Harding?”
“What? No — the mad bootblack at the corner of London who wears a top hat and calls himself the president.”
“No,” said Lew as he stretched an elastic band around a spool of twine. “Wait — a top hat?”
Vera Maude shook her head. “Can we back up the trolley?”
Lew pointed his fingers like handguns at Vera Maude. “Go.”
“Ready?”
“Ready like spaghetti.”
“My uncle Fred proposed to Mrs. Cattanach.”
“That’s wonderful.” Lew checked her expression. “Isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, for them, but … he asked me to plan the wedding.”
“You?”
Vera Maude stepped back and parked her hands on her hips. “Why does everyone keep saying that … and in that tone?”
Lew had to gently reel her in. “All right, let’s start with the way you’re carrying on. You may not realize it, but you’re having the same reaction yourself, on the inside … but it’s coming out.”
She attempted relaxing, unpinned her hat, and set it down on the counter.
“You need help,” said Lew.
“Damn right,” said Vera Maude. She looked over her shoulders. “Is Mr. Copeland in?”
“Lunch in Detroit with clients.”
That was some relief. She looked around the store again and then turned back to Lew. “Do you have any experience with this sort of thing? You know, weddings?”
Lew brushed an imaginary particle off his shoulder. “Some.”
“Really? What kind?”
“Flowers, I’ve done flowers — in a pinch. But I know some people who really do have more experience with this sort of thing.” He was doing his best to keep things on simmer. “Will it be a church wedding?”
“St. Andrew’s,” said Vera Maude.
“How many?”
“I don’t even know.”
“Two hundred? Twenty?”
“Small.” She scratched head. “Maybe forty … ish.”
“Let’s go with that,” said Lew. “Ish that is, and that’s okay. I’ve worked with ish before. Kidding. We’ll have to start with a base and work out … or down. Have you spoken with the bride?”
“No,” said Vera Maude.
Lew pressed his hand against his chest. “You need to talk to the bride.”
“Lew, this isn’t some girl out of —”
There was a jingle from the bell over front entrance and Vera Maude jumped. Not Mr. Copeland, but one of their usual book browsers. She spent hours in the store, asking questions and misplacing books. Maybe every couple of months she’d buy a greeting card.
“You really need to relax,” said Lew.
“It’s in three weeks.”
“Oh, dear. What? Labour Day weekend?”
“Apparently they decided to jump straight from ‘someday, maybe’ straight into Labour Day weekend.”
Vera Maude gently poked Lew’s shoulder. “And under no circumstances do you use that phrase in front of the bride and groom.”
“What phrase?”
“‘End of summer.’”
“Sensitive.“ Lew paused to let Vera Maude cool. “I was going to say, a row of picnic tables, food served country style …”
“The flowers. Let’s circle back to the flowers, if we may.”
There were no real customers about, just the usual lollygaggers performing their usual routine. The only difference was that this morning they got a floor show along with their shopping.
“Off the top of my head,” said Lew, “hyacinths. Oh … maybe not. Put your things away and let’s talk between the people.”
In Lew’s world, in Lew’s lexicon, there were people, and then there were “the people.” The former were always preferred; the latter to be avoided. He used it to refer to what others called the masses, or the great unwashed.
“I’m still early,” said Vera Maude. “Mind if I go out and grab something?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Can I get you anything? A ginger ale?”
“No, thanks. You go ahead; I’ll watch the fort.”
Friday mornings were usually quiet. People tended to be out doing their market shopping. It would pick up after lunch. Vera Maude dashed back out and went back up the block to Andros Brothers’ Confectionary. The door was open. She found an empty stool at the counter and planted herself.
“Ms. Vera, the usual?”
“Hit me.”
The gentleman came back from the cooler with a frosty bottle of Vernors. Vera Maude slapped her nickel on the counter with a, “Thanks, George.” She hustled back to the store, only to run into Copeland at the door. Three complete acts in tweed.
“Ah, Ms. Maguire, right on time.”
“Mr. Copeland, I … yes, right on time.”
He held the door open for her.
Lew tried not to look surprised to see him. “Mr. Copeland …”
“I’m missing a few files.”
Copeland walked straight to his desk, found the files, tucked them into his briefcase, and turned to Lew. “Lewis, I’ll be returning with a few cartons of books. I’ll take a cab up from the ferry, but you will have to help me carry them in, so be prepared. I could telephone from the dock.”
“No need, sir, I’ll be prepared.”
Copeland headed out, this time with two small canvas bags in addition to his files. The staff waited until the door closed behind him before they exhaled.
Vera Maude turned to Lew. “You’ve got your orders.”
“As do you.”
“Okay, what’s first?” said Vera Maude.
“The fiction bestsellers are in complete … bad disarray.”
“There’s a good disarray?”
“Maudie.”
“Yes?”
“Just array them.”
“Of course,” said Vera Maude. “What do I look like?”
“A sweet disarray.”
— Chapter 9 —
CANARDS SAUVAGES
Detective Campbell had recently fallen into the habit of not parking his car in front of the address he was visiting. He preferred to park down the block or around the corner, whenever there was a corner to be had. This was how he liked to enter a scene.
He had been assigned violent crime and homicide. He often wondered why, not understanding what they saw in him that made him more suited to this work than any other officer on the force.
He occasionally reminded himself that not every crime scene was a violent tragedy.
He kept walking.
This was a thinly populated area on the fringes of the city, built on the promises of so many realtors and developers, a fringe of roads and avenues that hung from the river, from Riverside Drive, into the only slightly less than wild marsh currently being drained and filled. In this quarter the realtors and developers held sway.
He stepped lightly up the walk and then stopped halfway between the street and the house to observe. She was wearing a coral top with a long blue peacock-patterned skirt. She knelt, revealing the Wellingtons she wore to keep her feet dry. It had rained again, another light shower. She straightened up and adjusted the wide-brimmed straw hat hanging from a loose chinstrap, shading her neck. Her silver-streaked strawberry blonde hair was roped into a large knot and if let loose would have reached down her back. Campbell gave himself a few more seconds.
The day was already turning out to be bright and fine. She was attempting to tame the wisteria climbing the sides of the portico. He thought it looked like a wedding veil. He slid the toe of his right foot slowly across the walk, as if he were rubbing out a cigarette butt. When she turned, he removed his hat.
“Ah, vous êtes surement — I’m sorry, Detective Campbell?”
He approached her and she pulled on a couple fingers of her white glove, stained with green, removed it, and presented her hand.
“Eugenie,” she said.
Campbell was trying to reassemble everything in his mind, every piece of information he had ever heard about this woman, but all he could see were her smile, her eyes fluttering in the glare of the morning sun, and the smudge of dirt on her cheek.
“Madame Laforet.”
“Philippe is in the kitchen. Come.”
It was his first time meeting the doctor’s wife, and the first time he had ever set foot in their home.
Campbell read the interior. A small foyer; a front room with paintings that resembled stage backdrops; a baby grand piano; two loveseats; a high back chair; and a low table holding down a Persian rug and topped with a vase of fresh cut irises. Not only was there no paper on the walls, but two of them were of different colours, a dull rouge and a clay hue.
“This way,” she said.
She led him through the dining room. It was minimally furnished and looked as if it were hardly used — of the four chairs, two of them hugged the nearest corner — unless there were guests.
“Campbell, welcome.”
The kitchen reminded Campbell of Laforet’s laboratory, except for the fatalities, which in this case were a couple of fowl. White tiled walls, a tray of cutting utensils, enamel bowls filled with innards, and Laforet in a stained apron poised over the table brandishing a chef’s knife.
This is where they dine, thought Campbell.
“May I pour you something?” asked Eugenie, walking toward the icebox. “The tea should be cool now.”
“That would be fine,” said the detective, “thank you.” He positioned himself on the other side of the galley, out of harm’s way. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting you. I thought you meant you’d be free when you asked me to —”
“I’m free so long as you don’t mind that I keep working.”
Eugenie handed Campbell a tall glass of tea with shards of ice floating on top and a thin wedge of lemon straddling the lip.
“Thank you.”
“Philippe?”
“No, thank you.”
She smiled and made her exit, leaving the men to their business in favour of returning to her pruning. Campbell watched her walk away as Laforet began slicing mushrooms.
“Your wife, Eugenie …”
“She does the cooking during the week and I do the cooking on the weekends.”
“A dancer?” said Campbell.
Laforet smiled, still slicing. “She studied ballet, and teaches occasionally at a studio in Detroit.”
“A lovely woman. May I ask … I mean, how did you meet?”
“At a cousin’s wedding in Montreal.”
Campbell took a sip from his glass, set it down, and paid closer attention to what Laforet was doing. “Duck?”
“Soon to be a salmis.”
“Salami?”
Laforet set the mushrooms aside. “Salmis de canards sauvages. Wild duck, a classic French dish … a hunter’s dish.”
“Wild? I didn’t know they were in season.”
“They’re in season under the counter at Lancaster’s.”
Campbell walked around the table to check the recipe, written on a piece of paper standing in the fold of an open book. He started reading it and said, “Anything else I shouldn’t know about? The brandy, the red wine …?”
Laforet looked up. “Would you like to stay for dinner?”
“I don’t think so,” said Campbell. He dropped the recipe back in its place. “Do you have anything else to share?”
Now they were getting down to business.
“You first,” said Laforet.
“All right. The Dominion Salt Company records are not all that reliable. They said they’d continue sifting through their rosters. To borrow a metaphor, their employee records were a bit of a rabbit warren.”
“How do you mean?”
“I was getting the distinct impression that some of their workers were being paid under the table,” said Campbell, “occasionally taking them down a path not of their choosing.”
“There are other possibilities.”
“Such as?”
“This person was not an employee of the mines, even off the books, but was rather, to put it crudely, disposed of in the mines. Hand me that celery.”
Campbell picked up the large, leaf-topped head of celery and passed it to Laforet. “Another possibility, I suppose … but it still would have had to been carried out by someone with access to and knowledge of the mines.”
Laforet pulled the celery apart, getting to the tender inner stalks. “Unusual.”
“Unique.”
“Can you splash a bit of water in that cast iron? I think the oven’s ready.”
Campbell picked up the skillet and ran it under the tap for a second. “This enough? Or too much?”
“Maybe a lit
tle too much. Wet the skillet, and then some.” Laforet stood by, his elbows bent, hand up, as if he were examining an X-ray before continuing surgery. “That should do; now just set it down here.” He dropped the celery pieces into the pan.
“I’m doubting it,” said Campbell.
“Doubting what?”
“The idea of it being disposal, as you say.” He paused for a moment. “What do you have?”
Laforet was wiping his hands again. “Well, he has a bullet wound in his left leg that went right through, grazing his femur. And you might be right about his being a veteran.”
“There’s more,” said Campbell.
Laforet was saving the best for last. “What we could not see, because of the position he was in, was the trauma on his left side. Both his jaw and neck were broken. It would have been a serious blow.”
“With what sort of instrument?” said Campbell.
“Whatever might be handy in a salt mine.”
“Might call for another visit.”
“May I be excused?” said Laforet.
“Of course. Did he have anything on him?”
“No wallet, no papers, no watch, no rings … nothing. Just his Essex Regiment tattoo.”
“A theft, then?” Campbell perked up. “What sort of valuables could a salt miner be carrying on his person?”
“Only he and his assailant knew,” said Laforet.
“The Veterans Association would have him on record.”
“What would you be asking them?”
“For starters, has anyone been looking for this man?”
“Good … but there are other questions.”
“Such as?”
Laforet patted the ducks with a towel, preparing to rub them with the fat he kept in a wide-mouthed jar.
“Why take all the trouble?” he said, “I mean, with the burial, such as it was.”
“That’s a good question.”
Laforet arranged the ducks in the skillet, breasts down. “Can you get the oven door for me?”
Campbell pulled it open. It was like a blast furnace.
“Laforet, they’ll be reduced to ashes.”
“It’s only fifteen minutes.” He set the skillet down and closed the door. He then poured himself an iced tea, took a long sip, and continued. “Now … the three arms.”
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