by Lou Allin
“Let’s take stock of what we have.” Holly ticked off a few points on her thinking pad. “A dead man. Marilyn admits that Joel visited her at home. If there was some of the drug left after Brittany died, did he take it with him? Is that why they fought? Or is the Bouchard kid lying to cause trouble? Remember what Sean said. I trust that little guy.”
Chipper shook his head. “If she had trouble with him, why not get a restraining order?”
“Marilyn isn’t a pushover, and I don’t see her being shy about taking steps against a low-life brother. He came to the island to get money out of her after reading about that lottery win. Big money. Not petty cash like she suggested. Wins like this draw relatives like a magnet.”
“And she gave him the large bills we found on his body.”
She laced her fingers together and stretched. “Three hundred, she said. As for the Fentanyl, druggies are opportunists. Medicine cabinets are their favourite places for trolling. All you’d find at my house are Shogun’s fish oil supplements and his applications for fleas and ticks.”
Chipper got a gleam in his eye that spelled brainstorm. “Back up a minute, Guv. Did you mention the Fentanyl by name when you told her about her brother’s death?”
Holly gave her head a mental scratch. “Honestly, I don’t recall.”
“Because if you did, she should have told you about her dog’s meds and the opportunity he had to take the rest. And if you did and she didn’t…or if you didn’t…” He stabbed a long, tapered finger on the table.
Ben Rogers had said to take care of the little things, and the big things would take care of themselves. How sloppy had she been, working up the nerve to tell Marilyn the bad news? “Synthetic opiate? Maybe that’s what I said. To be clearer to a layperson. It was only a factor inasmuch as we wanted to be on the lookout in case it appeared on the streets.”
A knowing smile lit one corner of Chipper’s mouth. “And it hasn’t. Not outside of Vancouver. What does that tell you?”
“That it was an isolated incident, thank god.”
Chipper leaned forward, wheels turning. “On the other hand, if Joel did steal the meds, it might make his sister feel guilty about his death, don’t you think? What about that twist?” A dry breeze rustled the papers on the desk. A black and cerise cinnabar moth headed for a patch of tansy.
“I don’t want to add to her misery. Frankly, I don’t know what to think any more. Here’s more fuel for our confusion.” She handed him copies of the papers found in the Tupperware container. “I sent the originals off for ninhydrin treatment, but given the age and deterioration, I’m not holding my breath.”
“Let’s see what you turned up. When you told me what Pastor Pete said, I couldn’t imagine what Joel might have wanted to hide.” Chipper scanned the papers. “Bizarre, for sure. Some old play or something. What the hell would that be doing in a cache?”
She told him about her research on the hobby and its rising popularity. “I’m thinking Joel chanced on that cache and decided to use it for his own valuables. The envelope.”
Chipper blew out a contemptuous breath. “But safe from what? Who cares about this stuff? It’s no treasure map.”
“He must have cared. Look at the trouble he took. The question is why.”
Chipper gave another glance at the sheet. “I can’t make out this old-fashioned stuff.”
Holly explained about Sister Clementine. “She’ll get back to me once she contacts some teacher. One thing’s sure. It wasn’t there for long. In this climate, it would have disintegrated from the damp.”
Ann came in waving the Sooke News Mirror. “Hey, look. Marilyn made the front page. Back in a minute. Have to go out for a can of coffee.”
Chipper drained his mug, buttoning the top of his shirt, then headed for the washroom, rolling his shoulders. Holly liked the way he was taking hold of this puzzle, brainstorming at her side, putting in long hours without a complaint. Other than seeing a few films, he’d never mentioned much of a personal life. She recalled how busy she’d been learning the ropes as a rookie.
The lead story in the free local weekly had a colour picture of the complex, featuring Marilyn in a rainbow African-print caftan, arms uplifted in welcome. Behind her, blurred in the background, were a main lodge and several smaller buildings, then the rising hills of the San Juans. Large trees had been logged before World War One as the acreage turned to pasture. Recently the aspen taking its place on the edges had been dozed into brushing rows waiting for the rainy season to be torched safely.
“The House of Alma, a wellness spa designed to minister to the needs of the body, mind, and soul, will open at the end of September, according to the owner, Marilyn Clavir of Fossil Bay. Ms Clavir took her training in Vancouver and San Francisco and has operated a successful business in town for the past twenty years. In addition to the Osho rebalancing form of massage, alternate therapies such as reflexology, aromatherapy and cleansing of toxins will be available. Clients may enroll in classes on nutrition, vitamin supplements and cooking with natural ingredients in the “slow food” method. Local organic farms will supply fruits, vegetables, herbs and eggs along with designer island cheeses, wines and ciders. Though Ms Clavir hopes to reach an international clientele, special prices and discounts will be given to islanders.”
Good PR, Holly thought.
Back from the store, Ann started her hourly workout on a small yoga mat she kept rolled in the closet. By now Holly knew the five-minute routine. With a characteristic lack of self-consciousness that testified to their comfortable relationship, Ann was busy with lazy pushups, then back stretches. Two inches shorter than Holly with the same one hundred and thirty-five pounds, she’d toned up on a new diet featuring whole grains, vegetables and fruit.
“Ooooo,” Ann said, as she eased back into the chair. “If it hurts, it’s working. If that isn’t a paradox.”
“I’m glad you found something that helped. Is it hot or cold yoga?” Remembering the tackle that had cost Ann an active career, no matter how much better she was, returning to that kind of duty could lead to nerve damage. The woman was a hero, disinclined to waste retirement years knitting, crocheting or even volunteering. Like the border collie born to its herding, Ann was bred to be a law officer.
“Depends on my mood and the temperature. But I’m better off hot, if you excuse the double meaning.” Ann’s grin looked good on her. Her face was losing that pinched and strained look. “I must be due for another massage, though. I hope Marilyn hasn’t cut back on her appointments.”
Holly thought a moment, still looking at the story in the paper. “Chipper and I have been looking into something. I’d like your input.” She filled Ann in on the situation with Fentanyl.
“Yeah, that does seem like an interesting coinkidink, as my grandmother said.”
“There’s something she’s not telling me, but my hands are tied. I’m not an inspector like Whitehouse.” The obnoxious inspector from the Major Crimes unit in West Shore had been brought in on a murder investigation the previous year.
“That’s the problem in a small detachment. They don’t take us seriously. At least we’re not one-man-bands up island in the middle of nowhere.” Ann fiddled with a pencil sharpener, her grey eyes gleaming with interest. “Sometimes I wish…” Her voice trailed off.
Ann was no complainer. “Marilyn’s a class act,” Holly said. “But something isn’t right. I never liked the loose ends. If Joel stole that drug from her, she needs to know. Suppose she used it herself.”
Ann put on her reading glasses but gave a scornful wave. “That’s ridiculous. Think of her background. And besides, he said, she said, everything is hearsay.”
Holly reminded herself that this was real life, where some mysteries might never be solved, maybe even her mother’s. “How can we make sense of this play outline? What the hell was Joel doing with it? I don’t fancy him the literary type.”
“What’s the timeline?” Ann asked, as if that should have been the f
irst consideration. “Go back to the beginning. Maybe this is something from the past.”
“Sure, but that paper couldn’t have been in the cache that long. Not with our climate.”
“Forget that for now. Let’s deal with what we can verify.”
“How old is Marilyn?”
Ann looked at the stain on the ceiling as she searched her brain. “She told me once when were discussing calcium supplements. Around fifty, give or take.”
Holly pulled Joel’s file from the cabinet. “Birth certificate put him at fifty-two. They grew up in Sooke.”
“Weren’t you around here then?”
“Not quite. Over in East Sooke, and for heaven’s sake, I was barely born.”
Ann gave a hearty laugh. “I didn’t mean you. What about your par…your father?” She tiptoed around the sensitive subject of Holly’s missing mother.
“My father the absent-minded professor wasn’t paying attention to anything but his job. We need someone who has known her a long time. Neither her mother or father is alive. All she had was her brother.” Or was there something more Marilyn hadn’t mentioned? Lying by omission was still lying.
Ann leaned back in her chair but kept her back straight and her feet on the floor. “In those days, two or three children was normal. Even four. God, as a single mother, I could barely handle one.”
Holly had never asked where or even who the father was. Particulars like that were Ann’s business.
“Where did Joel and Marilyn go to high school?” Ann asked.
“Not Notre Dame. I already asked my old teacher. And Sister Clementine is following up with someone at the public high school.”
“So you’ll just have to—”
Holly snapped her fingers. “Hold on. There is an aunt. The one who raised her after her mother died.”
Ann brightened. “Still living? She must have all the good genes in the family. What’s her name?”
Holly drummed her finger on the desk. “Aunt Dee, or maybe it’s D, as in short for something else. She’s living in Eyre Manor. That much I recall.”
A happy whistle was Ann’s response. “Where Mother lives. Piece of cake. Let me handle her. I know how to talk to the old folks. Many remember Pearl Harbor better than this morning’s breakfast. Something about the way the brain works. Cobwebs in the connections.”
What could they expect from the aunt? Not everyone was as sharp as Stella Rice and Sister Clementine. Ann had mentioned her mother once or twice, but when it came to spilling her guts, she was as private as Marilyn. Here was the perfect assignment. “So you’re there every week or—”
“I go there to have lunch with her on Sundays. That’s about all I can take, but you’d have to know Phyllis to understand.”
“Phyllis?” Holly couldn’t imagine calling her mother by her first name. “Is she pretty…cognizant?”
“Like a cobra.” Ann paused and polished her reading glasses with a tissue, holding them up to the light. “Aunt Dee, eh? My mother just moved there. I don’t know many names. They come and go. The nurses’ grim words, not mine.”
Holly thought about her father’s sudden vulnerability, quickly recovered or not. Was he only ten or fifteen years from this kind of life-changing event? “That must be tough.”
Ann ran a hand through her short brown hair. “I was depressed at first, seeing Mother dependent, the old dragon. Sort of like a waiting room to the great beyond. Every month or so, an empty chair, a lonely pack of cards. Then I realized that these people had their own lives and personalities. There but for the grace of God. I guess it’s a question of being satisfied with less and less after spending your life requiring more and more.”
“A good way to put it.”
“It’s an excellent place for her. My appearance on a regular basis assures that better watch is kept, plus I make sure she gets seen if necessary when the doctor comes each week. Double-check her meds and monitor her clothes. Volunteers read to the seniors or just talk.”
“I’m going to leave this in your capable hands. This isn’t an official investigation. But find out what you can about the family. You’re the soul of discretion.” With a grin, Holly put a finger to her lips. Strange that Ann referred to her mother, more formal than mom, an indication that they hadn’t been very close.
“That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me discreet. Are you flattering me?” Ann raised an eyebrow. “People clam up pretty fast if they think they’re talking to a cop. But being too friendly isn’t professional.”
“Marilyn must have told Aunt Dee about Joel’s death. And unless the woman’s been gaga for years, she knows what a bad boy he was. Maybe this will shed light on whether those papers belonged to him. It’s not like we have samples to examine.”
“And it was printed,” Ann added. “That changes everything. The handwriting class I took online last year says comparisons can’t be made between printing and cursive. Totally different styles.”
Ann’s initiative reminded Holly that she hadn’t done much lately to upgrade her own skills. “So that’s why criminals cut letters from the paper or block print with a magic marker.”
FOURTEEN
In her bright galley kitchen, Ann switched off CBC Radio shortly before noon and dished tuna into Bump’s dish as the tortoise-shell cat twined around her ankles. Phyllis would be expecting her, probably tapping her watch. Supervised living had saved the day after she had fractured a hip falling in her classy apartment in Oak Bay last year. “Breaking a hip signals the end of life for many seniors,” the doctor had said, speaking quietly in the waiting room after the operation. “Your mother is a tough old eagle with the bones of a sparrow.” Home care wasn’t practical for someone so frail and bent from osteoarthritis. She’d been a big cola drinker all her life, and it had come back to bite her. Exercise helped maintain bones, but that wasn’t part of her generation’s habits. And with occasional reflux, she wasn’t a good candidate for the new phosphate drugs. The doctor had agreed that strontium couldn’t hurt, and Ann had found a source at Popeye’s in Victoria.
Ann’s parents had been globetrotters even before his retirement from a career as a Canadian Tire executive. But then he’d slept late one final morning. Her face calm and her pinkie finger extended from a cup of tea, Phyllis had registered her usual sangfroid. “Fred’s bought the farm,” she had said when Ann rushed over. “I’ve called the police, the lawyer, the undertaker and the crematorium. Let’s get things rolling. First up, sell the old Mercedes. Don’t take less than five thousand. I never needed to drive, and at eighty, I’m not starting now. That’s why God made taxis and children.”
Ann was relieved to be able to move her mother to Sooke to keep a closer eye on her. “I don’t understand why you want to associate with the worst in society, grub around in the gutter. You had such a way with people,” her mother had said. “You could have been a teacher or a nurse.” These professions were historically honourable for females during the Great Depression. “Or found a maaaan,” she added, elongating the syllables. She’d badgered Ann so much about the mystery father that Ann had left for Vancouver six months pregnant and kept house for a friend until her son’s birth. Her father Fred Troy had used his contacts to track her down and insisted on giving her a loan for the baby. Phyllis hadn’t met her grandson until he was five. It had taken Ann years of working to raise her son before she could go to college then join the force.
Ann hopped into her sagging Cavalier, left her small condo behind Sooke Elementary and made a few turns into Eyre Manor. Conveniently located for shopping, doctors, dentists and restaurants, the handsome complex had been a successful and timely initiative. Short of blowing up the ferries, there was no way to stop the burgeoning numbers of retirees from frigid zones from tossing their long underwear and moving to Lalaland to play golf year round.
She was in no hurry to meet Phyllis. Their mutual abrasion was like two entwined trees rubbing wounds on each other. Ann spent a few minutes admiring the new la
ndscaping. Rhodos, arbutus bushes, a mock orange, a row of cedars, even pear, plum and apple trees. Mobile residents were encouraged to get into action and help plant the annuals and trim the perennials. Beds of red and white petunias adorned the front. A few people with walkers strolled the grounds, and every now and then a wheelchair or motorized scooter, Canadian flag waving on a fibreglass pole, appeared around the corner. One narrow, enclosed vehicle was nearly the size of a Smart Car. Her mother had asked for one, but with that independent streak, she might tootle off to the beach, crossing thoroughfares at her own risk. Mother had always made the rules.
Three levels of living had geared-to-income costs: independent cottages, assisted apartments, and a care wing, aka nursing home. Entering the main lobby for the apartments to the tune of 101 Strings on the speakers, Ann headed for the dining room, steamy clouds of a hot meal meeting her nose. She paid for her own lunch on a monthly basis, though her mother thought she was treating her daughter. Ann left it that way. Her father had made bad investments, and the family fortune had been reduced by three-quarters the year after he died. Ann did the accounting, and when her mother asked how Nortel, General Motors and Katanga were faring, she replied, “Same as everything else these days.” If Phyllis knew that she was being subsidized by her daughter, she might insist on moving in with her and driving them both nuts.
On the wall was a seasonal exhibit of arts and crafts by the elders. One watercolour caught Ann’s attention, a picturesque cove with floating beds of kelp and seals basking on the rocks.
Her mother scuttled up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder none too gently with her malacca cane. Her head was bent as she peered beady parrot eyes at Ann. What she lost in height, she made up for in chutzpah. “You’re three minutes late. Come on. It’s fish today, and it’s just plain disgusting when it’s cold. So damn bland anyway. Why can’t we have some real meat? Are they forcing us to turn vegetarian or just being cheap? Did you bring the Tabasco? That green kind. Doctor says no red for me.”
