by Lou Allin
He rested his head on his hand and crossed off another day on his desk calendar. Six more before they took her to the airport. It was sweet of the old lady to make rosewater puddings for him, stuff him with parathas and pakora until he squeaked. But the apartment was too small for three, let alone four.
He was pondering whether it was “compliment” or “complement” to describe a group of officers when the phone rang.“Officer Singh? This is Mindy from the Sooke Animal Hospital,” a melodic voice said. “You called earlier to ask about something you read online about Fentanyl being used to treat animals.”
Someone else working overtime. He felt an instant camaraderie. “Thanks for calling back. We had a fatal overdose which involved that drug and have been trying to track down any local sources.” He chastised himself for using the word “fatal” to make his business more important. Was it because he was talking to a girl? The last marriage prospect his parents had introduced was a cousin of some Victoria heart specialist, who’d seen his father for a checkup. A beauty on the plump side, she was as dumb as a box of rocks. And the way she’d fawned on him. Her jalabis were delicious, but sweets could be purchased. You didn’t go to bed with them every night.
“I spoke with the doctor. We’ve used it a few times to treat severe pain, such as non-repairable hip breakdowns, spinal degeneration, older animals where the answer isn’t an operation. A temporary solution to make the patient comfortable in the final days. Palliative care, it’s called.”
Chipper perked up and made a fresh note. Holly would need to hear about this. But he needed more details. “Are we talking about pills? Powder? A liquid?”
Mindy excused herself to get the information. She sounded really friendly. But smart. Good vocabulary, too. Was she married? Did she like tall guys? What about officers? He hadn’t been on a date since he’d transferred to the island.
“Here we are, constable.”
He shook himself back to reality. It wouldn’t look good to be flirting with someone he met on the job. But she wasn’t directly involved in a case. What could a coffee hurt? “And please call me Chipper.”
He heard a little giggle. “We use the transdermal patch.”
“A patch? I’ve never seen anything like that. How does it work?”
“It’s designed with a porous membrane for timed absorption. The animals seem to know that they’re being helped and don’t try to pull it off.”
No patches in this case. “That doesn’t fit our situation. Any other forms for this Fentanyl?”
“Ummm. There is a kind of lollipop animals can suck. The drug is applied lingually. Through the…mucous membranes.” She cleared her throat.
A modest girl his mother might approve, even if she wasn’t East Indian. His pulse quickened.
“Hello? Chipper?”
He blew out a frustrated breath. No patch or lollipop for Joel. “I see. Thanks, Mindy, for your help—” He hesitated to ring off, wondering if he could find a reason to see her in person. She didn’t seem in any hurry to end the conversation.
A buzzer sounded in the background. “Oh, sorry. That’s the dryer. I’m washing some of our crate blankets. But in one case, I remember now, the doctor prescribed the powder. To be used very, very judiciously for pain. One of our older dogs.”
“How long ago?” Snap. There went the pencil’s fine point.
“About a month ago. Ms…let’s see…Clavir received the powder because her dog doesn’t tolerate other options. The little girl was in very bad condition, but she had a will to live. It was a palliative care case, like I told you about.”
His heart double-pumped at the connection. “Would that be Marilyn Clavir?” He tried to sound casual.
“Oh dear, I shouldn’t have mentioned names.”
“No problem. It’s just a matter of research. You’ve been super to call me back so quickly.”
Holly should hear about this. But it didn’t make any sense. Joel had died almost instantaneously in the bush. Could he have taken it from her house? A few seconds passed, and Mindy was still on the line. That was a good sign.
Sitting up straight, he took a deep breath and asked her if she’d like to have a seven-sharp coffee the next morning before they both hit their shift. And she agreed. Then he had more sober thoughts. What did she look like? For all he knew, she was forty, but he could try Facebook. Damn. He didn’t know her last name. He put on his iPod and switched on Iz, the supersized Hawaiian Elvis, singing “Over the Rainbow”. It was only coffee, not a marriage proposal.
*
After spending the morning in Victoria, Holly headed for Warren Street in Sooke in the late afternoon just after the last bus had gone. Despite the development chipping at its edges, here was one of the last working farms in the core. Surrounded by a greenbelt of forest, the acreage looked the same as it would have a hundred years ago. A dozen cows grazed on the sparse, rock-strewn ground. In former days, they might have had their spring forage boosted by eating the famous cow parsnip that lined the hedgerows. With its monster leaves and swollen stalk in the early spring, it soared seven feet into the air. Then past an aspen grove came the clearing with Notre Dame Academy. The huge red brick Romanesque building with white pointing had been constructed after World War Two for the daughters of the region’s wealthiest families, owners of logging and fishing businesses. Forced to go co-ed by shrinking enrollment, the school found the key to rejuvenation. She parked in the visitor’s lot.
Delicate Virginia creeper swept down the side of the building in an old-world fashion. Carved into the lintel was the school’s motto: “Per aspera, ad astra.” Through hardship to the stars. Hiking up the limestone steps, Holly muttered, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.” She turned right in the main hall, noticing that a passing boy wore dark slacks and a white shirt while a girl had the same shirt, knee socks and a dark plaid kilt, easily rucked to a mini once outside the building.
Nodding acquaintance at a familiar mural which portrayed the timber industry as a doting grandfather, with logs piled like pencils, salmon leaping from crystal streams and children picnicking, she stepped into the office. A familiar polished oak bench circa 1930 still sat like a reproof under the regulator clock, where she’d spent many hours being disciplined. Skipping religion class to walk in the nearby woods, gaze up at the massive cedars and firs spared from the axe was a fair tradeoff.
“Officer, what can I do for you?” the secretary in casual jeans asked. “If you’re looking for a teacher, we have only a few teaching summer school courses. I hope this isn’t about any of our students.” Her pale forehead creased with concern. Last year a graduating senior had drowned at Botanical Beach.
“Nothing like that. I’d like to talk with Sister Clementine. She hasn’t retired, has she?” Holly explained that she had graduated from Notre Dame nearly fifteen years ago.
“Did you then? When it was all-girl. That was just before I came. We love to see our former students. ND is one big family. As for Sister C…” The woman shook her head as she laughed. “Work here? She lives here. The diocese provides a small apartment at the back of the school. At her…age, it seemed wiser than requiring her to make the commute from the mother house in Victoria or find suitable lodging nearby.” The vacancy rate was below point-five per cent, even with illegal suites. The woman shouldered her purse and headed for the door. “I’m leaving now. If you’ll follow me, I can show you—”
Holly waved her off with a friendly gesture. “I wore a path to the library…and to detention.” Along with her buddy, Valerie Novince, one person she’d been happy to find in Sooke.
The high-ceilinged wainscotted library on the second floor had a million-dollar view of the small harbour. Holly noted with wry approval a number of “banned” books featured in a glassed display cabinet. Huckleberry Finn. The Diviners. Catcher in the Rye. Good strategy. Make something forbidden so that teens will read it. Sister C was an intellectual Jesuit far to the left of the infamous Torquemada, though a session at th
e rack for lazy students might have pleased her. “If you turn a blind eye to any information, you do yourself more harm. Knowledge is power,” she always said, shaking a small, blue-veined fist. “Think for yourself. Let your conscience be your guide, as Jiminy says.”
One large fan moved the still air. A figure in a white linen robe was staring out the window at a bevy of kayaks taking a group lesson in the cobalt-blue waters. They were headed for quieter coves in the interior basin because a slight chop was beginning to roil the waves as silver-edged clouds danced above. The woman stood with hands clasped behind a straight back as if giving posture lessons.
“The world is charged with the grandeur of God,” the surprisingly strong voice said as if speaking on stage. One bony hand emerged from the robe, directing a choir.
“It will flame out,” Holly added, moving forward. Sister had made them memorize a Hopkins poem in Grade Twelve literature. “Like the shining of shook foil.” At the time she’d wondered how they had known about aluminum in the nineteenth century.
The sister didn’t flinch, but her shoulders jiggled. “Look who’s back,” she said, turning. A small emerald winked at the end of a cross around her neck. Real or artificial? The girls had placed bets, and bold Valerie was designated to ask her. The answer had surprised them. “Let that remain a mystery to you, young ladies. We are none of us perfect. Sometimes a flaw is the best character trait.” The senior students had speculated that she led a secret, luxurious life, and smiled at each other when she read the lines of Chaucer’s Prioress. The starched white wimple left her brow creamy and innocent, elevating her above stress and strife.
Holly stuck out a hand in reflex like a student, but the old nun pulled her close and thumped her on the back in greeting. The woman had to be pushing seventy-five, wiry and strong as a greyhound. Holly imagined that she did isometrics in her cell… or her apartment. One year when the Sooke River had flooded, she had rolled up capacious sleeves and heaved alongside the sandbag brigade, singing “By the Waters of Babylon.”
“And you’re all grown up now. In the constabulary. And fully armed.” Her tone was not judgmental, but Holly flushed. With all the technological devices on her belt, she felt weaponless looking at an elderly woman who used words like rocket launchers.
“Feels like yesterday that you made me stay late for a week to wash the blackboards on the entire second floor.”
“Tea?” To be served in Sister’s library was the height of honour. After school had ended, Holly had often helped her to shelve books and learned the difference between Darjeeling and jasmine. Herbal brews never touched those thin lips.
Balancing china cups of lapsang souchong, they sat in two padded leather armchairs as creased with experience as the nun’s face. Sister thought that anyone who came to the library on serious business (as if there were any other kind) deserved comfort. Mindful of the budget, she’d snagged the furniture when the Greater Victoria Public Library had remodeled its reading room. And quiet was her middle name. The students learned to communicate by sign language, and only on her blind side. Notes passed were speared like minnows and displayed for all to read.
A decade passed in seconds. “I heard about your mother. Very tragic. Has there been any…” Her voice trailed off, which surprised Holly.
“Not so far.” Holly managed to raise a tentative eyebrow. “But I’m back, so you never know.”
“I have faith in you.” Sister made a gesture of blessing.
Holly filled her in on the time that had passed since they’d met. The old woman nodded and smiled. “I was at a retreat in northern Alberta last year, or we might have met at the memorial service for Angie.” Angie was the girl who had died at the beach.
“I’m on another kind of mission.” Holly began to open a file folder. “I wanted to ask your opinion about this. Lit wasn’t my strong suit…oh, not that I didn’t like your classes…” She flushed crimson and wondered where to hide. Under a desk?
“Tut tut. I can read your face, my dear. It’s fortunate that you didn’t become a professional poker player.” Sister’s eyes narrowed like raisins in the sun.
“I found these pages under rather odd circumstances. It may mean nothing. I’d prefer if you didn’t touch them.” Holly spread out the sheets on a table and explained the details.
From a hidden pocket in the voluminous folds, the sister removed a pair of pince-nez, adjusting them on her aquiline nose. It smelled out trouble, she always told the girls.
“Torn out of an old exam book. A blue book, we would say, like the cover.”
Holly saw herself hunched over a desk, sweating gallons as she fumbled to get thoughts on paper. She’d received a B in English, and how it stung, deserved or not. “I remember those.
How far back did the schools use them?”
“Are you implying that I am that old?”
“‘Venerable’ is a better word. But you are a historian.”
“Polymath. As all good students should be.” For several minutes the nun gazed at the sheets. She read up and reread down, paused, pursed her creased lips, and repeated the action. Finally she looked up, her deep set eyes glinting with silver.
“Amateurish, but…there is some merit as pastiche. I myself wrote sonnets in all four styles as an exercise for Father O’Kelly at Concordia.” She read:
Ghost: From my ’pointed vortex in the gale
Across the running Styx where Charon makes
His daily crossings with all damned souls,
Ate, Lust, attend me now. Come forth!
For I have gnawing vengeance to perform.
Ate: My spleen has lately grown too fat for hell
And I would fain expend this fretful ire
On anyone your fiery tongue could tell.”
Lust: And likewise do I answer at your call.
To poison love with lust is my delighte.”
Sister could have filled the Save-on Foods Centre by reading the phone book. And so it was A-te in two syllables, not like the past tense of eat. “Sounds like Shakespeare. But it can’t be,” Holly said.
“You do remember your iambic pentameter. But I know the canon and the Apocrypha. The History of Cardenio. Sir John Oldcastle. This is an amateur imitation. Reminds me of Chatterton and his ‘discovered’ odes. Imagine how a seventeen-year-old boy fooled people with those forgeries. Of course, education was superior in those days.”
Holly suppressed a comment. Sister lived in a quiet, contemplative world removed from the exponential advances of science. “Anything you might have seen in your classes? The place names are local.”
“True. But no student of mine could have done anything on such a grand scheme. Not the layout of an entire play. Mind you, there’s no reason to think it went any further.”
Holly sipped the fragrant tea. “What else can you tell me?”
“Two names lead the cast, but they are indecipherable with this mildew and brown spotting. The knight, Br something. And Bel, trailing off. There was a character called Bel Imperia in Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy. As for Gloriana, that’s always been Queen Elizabeth the First. And the attempt at ye olde language is humourous. But it has merit, in its sui generis fashion.”
Holly didn’t dare ask Sister what that meant. She’d nearly failed Latin and retained only a few helpful concepts like qui bono and habeas corpus.
Sister continued. “If we had the entire document we might know more.”
“I doubt there is more.” Holly spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I found this near a dead man.”
Sister flicked a dust speck from her immaculate white habit.
“Joel Clavir was his name. Did you ever teach anyone in that family?” Holly asked.
“Clavir? Not a chance. I’d remember such a unique name. So he tried to hide this for some reason. Then I understand your curiosity.” She looked up with a question. “Where are your resources? What do they do on television? Analyze the writing? Shine a magic revealing light? Look at the fin
gerprints? Trace the bond of the paper?”
Apparently the sister wasn’t as isolated as she pretended to be. “If I were in a CSI show and not real life.” Holly shook her head. 8220;I’d be laughed out of West Shore, where the detectives hang out. It’s the content that will help us. And we’re not going to find specialists in Elizabethan literature in RCMP detachments.”
“Given the poor job prospects for English majors, I’m not so sure. May I make a copy of your pages?”
“Sorry. I’d rather you didn’t. Regulations.”
Sister nodded. “Then give me some time, and let us suppose, because of the place names, that this was written by someone in the public high school in Sooke. I have a few contacts with former teachers. Although this man in question…”
Something about her expression made Holly uneasy.
THIRTEEN
After setting his iPod on its charger, Chipper filled Holly in on what the vet tech had said about Fentanyl, his sharp eyebrows rising and falling with the narrative. They sat in the lunch room on a rare cloudy day. The tease of rain was reneging on the promise in its billowy silver-trimmed clouds, though Holly turned her head border collie-style, trying to detect the rumble of dry thunder reverberating across the strait from the purple hills. Blockbuster atmospherics were rare on the island. Dust-covered windows and cars and sneezes echoed on the streets as people coughed discreetly into their elbows. Drugstores were doing great business in allergy-relief pills and tissues for watery eyes.
“I discounted the patch and the lollipop delivery, but then came this.” Chipper rubbed at the neatly trimmed beard. “Are you going to follow up?” His tone left her no choice, but the proposal tightened her stomach.
