The Dells

by Michael Blair

  Earlier, while Hal had been preparing the gas barbecue, Shoe had asked him why he hadn’t been at the airport, was everything all right. Hal had shrugged and said, “Something came up at work. My boss’s quarterly rah-rah session. He likes to spring them on us. Sorry about that.”

  Hal was four years older than Shoe, and he looked every day of his fifty-four years. His hair was a lustreless iron-grey, still thick but lying flat and limp on his skull, and his complexion was sallow and waxy. He’d put on a few more pounds since Shoe had last seen him; it did not sit well on his heavy frame. His thick, dark-rimmed glasses kept slipping to the end of his nose.

  “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Shoe asked.

  “What? Oh, that. Waste of time, if Rae’s already talked to you.” He stooped to open the valve of the propane tank, then stood, breathing heavily. He pushed his glasses back up his nose.

  “She told me you thought Mum and Dad should move into a retirement home.”

  “Well, they aren’t getting any younger, are they?”

  “None of us are. How do they feel about it?” Shoe asked.

  “I haven’t said anything to them yet. Rae, of course, won’t hear of it. But they’re getting too old to live on their own. Mum’s arthritis is getting worse. And what if one of them gets sick or has another accident?”

  “They seem to be managing all right.”

  “Damnit, it’s bad enough that Rae gives me a hard time about this, don’t you start. You haven’t seen them since Christmas before last. When was the last time you even spoke to them?”

  “I try to call them at least once a week,” Shoe said. It could be a frustrating experience. His father’s hearing aids frequently fed back through the phone, and as often as not his mother called him “Hal.” She’d never been able to keep her sons’ names straight; his father usually just called them both “son.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” Hal said grudgingly. “But put yourself in my place. You’re on the other side of the country and Rae’s too goddamn busy being the family’s social conscience, I’m the one who has to look after them.”

  “Isn’t that why Rae moved in here with them?” Shoe asked. “To keep an eye on them?”

  “Right,” Hal said sourly. “And how long do you think it will be before she takes off to march in support of aboriginal land claims or chain herself to some ugly old building protesting the loss of our architectural heritage. You know she participated in the Gay Pride Parade this year? Jesus, you don’t think she’s a lesbian, do you?”

  Shoe decided a change of topic was in order.

  “How’s Maureen?” he asked. “She’s fine,” Hal replied. “She’s got this silly idea about starting her own landscaping business.”

  “Why silly?” Shoe had worked for a landscaping company for a few months when he’d first washed ashore in Vancouver. It had been a satisfying although not especially lucrative experience.

  “She was an office manager for a lighting supply company,” Hal said. “What does she know about running her own business?”

  It seemed to Shoe that that made her as qualified to operate her own business as anyone was. He kept the thought to himself.

  “How about you?” Hal asked. “Are you keeping out of trouble?”

  “Trying to,” Shoe replied.

  “That’ll be a change. Are you enjoying retirement?”

  “Such as it is.”

  “And, ah, Muriel?”

  “Busy.”

  “You’re still together, though, right?”

  “After a fashion.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We just don’t see much of each other these days,” he said.

  “Mm,” Hal replied. “Tell me about it.”

  Shoe was relieved that Hal didn’t pursue the subject of Shoe and Muriel Yee’s relationship. “What’s up with you, Hal? Two years ago you were talking about retiring at fifty-five.” Hal would turn fifty-five in October.

  “I’ve made VP since then,” Hal replied. “I can’t afford to retire.” He laughed at his own joke, a little hollowly, Shoe thought. “I’m up for what my boss calls the ‘Oscar,’ the super-size bonus he gives out every year, basically to rub it in the noses of everyone who doesn’t get it. I was thinking about using it to buy an RV and do some travelling, but … ” He shrugged.

  “I thought you disliked travelling.”

  “On business,” Hal said. “By plane, especially, and staying in hotels. But last year and the year before Maureen and I rented an RV for a month during the summer. We were hoping to do it again this summer, but, well, it didn’t work out. There’s some beautiful country out there and we’d like to see some of it before it’s all paved over. Y’know, I’ve never seen the Rocky Mountains except from thirty thousand feet in the air. Anyway, it was just an idea,” he’d added.

  “You’ve had worse ones,” Shoe had said.

  “Eh?” Hal had replied. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, Hal,” Shoe had said. “Relax.”

  Maureen stood away from the kitchen counter with a thrust of her hips, picked up the wine bottle, and beckoned him with it to follow her down the stairs to the back door and out into the yard. The evening was warm, but the humidity had gone down. The sound of crickets and cicadas and tree frogs was an appropriate accompaniment to the easy jazz drifting from speakers Maureen had propped in the basement window. The music was occasionally overwhelmed by the squeals and shouts of the kids playing in the pool in the backyard of the house three doors down, next to the house that had once belonged to Marvin Cartwright.

  Shoe’s parents sat in lawn chairs at the top of the slope while Hal tended the barbecue. He turned marinated chicken breasts, spicy Italian sausages, and butterfly pork chops, the barbecue tongs in one hand, a beer in the other. He drained the bottle and set it down with the two other empties on the ground next to the barbecue.

  “So where’s mine?” he said to Shoe, eyeing the beer in Shoe’s hand.

  “Take this one,” Shoe said, handing the bottle to his brother.

  Maureen frowned at her husband, said to Shoe, “I’ll get you another one.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said.

  “We’re almost done here,” Hal said, moving the food to the back of the grill. “Where the hell’s Rae got to?”

  “She had some errands to run,” Shoe said. “She said she’d be back in plenty of time for dinner.”

  “I’m here,” Rachel said as she came around the corner of the garage, staggering under the weight of a large cardboard carton. “Help,” she squeaked.

  Shoe took the carton from her and set it on the bench by the back door. “Rae’s kid stuff” was scrawled on the top in Magic Marker.

  “Whew, thanks,” Rachel said. She went to her parents, bent and kissed first her mother, then her father. “Sorry I’m late.” She exchanged a hug with Maureen, gratefully accepted a glass of wine, and said, “I hope you and Hal can account for your whereabouts last night.”

  Maureen chuckled. Hal harrumphed. Howard Schumacher said, “Eh? What was that?”

  Rachel raised her voice and said, “It’s okay, Pop. I was just wondering if Maureen and Hal had alibis for last night. Joe, you’re probably the only one of us with an absolutely airtight alibi for the time of Marvin Cartwright’s murder.”

  “Hal was rattling the windows when I got home at two from a night out with a girlfriend,” Maureen said. “Of course, who knows what he was up to while I was out.”

  “I was working,” Hal said. “Someone has to.” The remark earned him an angry glare from his wife. “I took the last train and didn’t get home till half past one,” he added, shutting down the gas to the barbecue. He began transferring chicken breasts, sausages, and pork chops to a platter.

  Shoe looked into the shadowy woods. Marvin Cartwright’s body had been taken away late in the day and the crime scene shelter had been dismantled.

  “Where did they find the body?” Maureen a
sked.

  Hal said, “Do we have to talk about this?” He banged the platter down onto the picnic table.

  Maureen sighed heavily and turned toward the house. “I’ll get the veggies.”

  “I’ll give you a hand,” Rachel said.

  Rachel and Maureen went into the house, leaving Shoe alone with his brother and his parents. No one spoke, but Shoe was comfortable with silence. So were his parents, sitting close, his father’s hand resting lightly on his mother’s arm, as if to reassure her she was not alone. Hal, however, fidgeted and seemed on the verge of speaking, but evidently could not think of anything to say.

  Shoe told himself he needed to make a greater effort to come home more often. Despite his father’s increasing deafness and his mother’s arthritis and blindness, his parents were remarkably fit for their ages, but they were, he reminded himself, both in their eighties. They were probably in better health than Hal, Shoe thought, judging from the pallor of his brother’s skin and that the slightest exertion seemed to make him short of breath. When was the last time Hal had had a physical? Shoe wondered. On the other hand, he thought grimly, when was the last time I had a complete physical? He’d been checked out in the Vancouver General ER just before Christmas, after a martial arts expert named Del Tilley had tried his best to kick him to death. His injuries, albeit painful, had been minor, mostly superficial, and they hadn’t done a blood workup or an EKG. To his credit, he tried to run at least ten kilometres three or four times a week, worked out with weights or swam as often as he could, and enjoyed walking. He’d never smoked, seldom drank alcohol, and watched his diet, although he wasn’t obsessive about it. He wore the same size jeans he had at twenty-five. He supposed he had a few miles in him yet.

  Maureen and Rachel came out of the house. Maureen carried the platter of roasted vegetables, Rae another bottle of wine in one hand and three bottles of beer in the other, the necks between her fingers. She handed one to Shoe, one to her father, and Hal took the third, which got him another frown from his wife.

  “I guess I’m driving home tonight,” she said. Ignoring Hal’s sullen glower, she started dishing out the food.

  “Be right back,” Rachel said. Ignoring a conveniently placed gate, she effortlessly vaulted the chest-high, vine-covered fence into the backyard of the house next door, where the Levinsons had once lived, walked to the back door, knocked, and went inside. She emerged a moment later, accompanied by a portly, bearded man. He opened the gate, let Rachel through, then followed, carefully closing the gate behind them. Arm in arm, they walked across the yard to the patio. The man bore two bottles of wine in his free arm.

  “Hey, Doc,” Howard Schumacher said.

  “Evening, folks,” the man said. He set the wine bottles on the picnic table.

  He was in his early sixties, Shoe guessed, with a neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard and longish greying black hair that was thinning on top. He wore rimless eyeglasses with thick lenses that lent him a slightly startled look. He was dressed in an oxford shirt, corduroy trousers that were slightly baggy at the knees, and rugged walking shoes.

  “Doc,” Rachel said. “Meet my brother Joe. Joe, meet Dr. Harvey Wiseman.”

  Shoe held out his hand. “How do you do, Dr. Wiseman?” Wiseman’s handshake was firm and quick.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Wiseman replied, lamplight glinting off the lenses of his glasses. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Howard and Vera and Rachel. And, please, call me Harv.”

  “Ignore him,” Rachel said. “Everyone calls him Doc.”

  “Despite my best efforts,” Wiseman said. “I’m a physicist, not a physician. In my opinion, PhDs who insist on being called ‘Doctor’ are far too full of themselves. Besides, like Stephen Leacock, I’m afraid that if people call me Doc, one of these days I’ll be called upon to delivery a baby.”

  “Far be it from me to put a helpless infant or unsuspecting parents at risk,” Shoe said. “Harv, it is.”

  “I’m told I should call you Shoe.”

  “Most people do.”

  “Well, if Shoe fits,” Wiseman said, to an chorus of groans. “Now that that’s settled, let’s eat. I’m starved. Hal, those sausages look delicious. Blackened just the way I like them.”

  “Uh, I think they have pork in them,” Hal said. “There’s chicken.”

  “I appreciate the thought, really, but they definitely look kosher to me.” He speared a sausage off the platter, dropped it with a hard clunk onto his plate.

  No one spoke for a time, concentrating on the food, while the cicadas and tree frogs sang along with Diana Krall. Shoe wondered what Muriel was doing at that moment. Working, most likely. He missed her, wished that she’d been able to come with him, but she’d been too busy. Perhaps next time …

  “Doc,” Howard Schumacher said around a mouthful of chicken, finally breaking the lull. “You heard about the dead man in the woods?”

  “Pop,” Hal said sternly.

  “Yes, I did,” Wiseman replied. “The police spoke to me earlier today. Awful. Beaten to death. I understand he used to live in the neighbourhood. Did you know him?”

  “Sort of,” Shoe’s father said.

  “Look,” Hal said. “Do you really think this is appropriate dinner conversation?”

  “Oh, Hal,” Rachel said. “Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.” She poked him in the gut with a finger. “Your shirt is already stuffed enough as it is.”

  Maureen choked and coughed, unsuccessfully stifling a giggle. Hal’s face clouded. He threw down his knife and fork with a clatter, stood, and stalked away from the table.

  Shoe’s mother cast about worriedly. “Hal, dear, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

  “Forget it, Mother,” Rachel said. “Hal has left the building.”

  chapter five

  Shoe and Rachel sat side by side in aluminum lawn chairs at the top of the slope of the yard. Fireflies sparked lazily against the backdrop of the dark woods. Rachel cradled a bottle of beer in her lap. Shoe had a mug of coffee, thus far in his life mercifully immune to the negative effects of caffeine. His parents had gone to bed and Harvey Wiseman was in the kitchen with Maureen, helping with the washing up. No one knew where Hal had got to, but at least he hadn’t taken his car; it was blocked by Rachel’s yellow New Beetle.

  “Maureen has been after Hal to lose some weight for ages,” Rachel said. She took a slug from the beer bottle. “I guess he’s a little sensitive about it.”

  “I think there’s more to it than that,” Shoe said. “How are things between Maureen and him?”

  “I like Maureen,” Rachel said. “And I think she likes me. But we’re not close. We hardly ever talk about personal issues. Maybe we should. The short answer is, I don’t know. Given Hal’s behaviour this evening, maybe not so great.”

  “He told me that you and he disagree about whether Mum and Dad should move into a seniors’ residence.”

  “That’s what he said, we disagree about whether or not they should?” She sighed heavily. “I’m not against them moving into a seniors’ residence. In fact, it was me who brought it up after Dad fell on the basement stairs going down to do the laundry. He wasn’t hurt, but it was a wake-up call that maybe it’s time they considered selling the house and moving into some place a little easier to manage.”

  “So you’re not moving in permanently?”

  “Christ, no. I just stay here on weekends. More than that, I’d go nuts. So would Mum and Dad. I don’t care if they move into an apartment or a seniors’ residence. What I’m against is the dump Hal thinks they should move to. He says they can’t afford anything else, but that’s bull. Do you know what this place is worth? Half a million at least. If they sold it, they’d have over a million dollars in cash and investments.

  “Our parents are fucking millionaires, Joe. Doc says a million dollars isn’t what it used to be. I’ll have to take his word for it. But a million is more than enough for them to move into a much better place than
the one Hal thinks they should. I found a place that’d run them about seventy-five grand a year, everything included. Even at the miserable interest rates the banks are paying these days, a million would easily last them twenty years. Okay, it’s not inconceivable that they could both outlive the money, but how likely is it? Hal’s just worried that there won’t be anything left over for him.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I’m not a millionaire by any stretch of the imagination, but business is good and I’m doing all right.” Rachel called herself a strategic marketing analyst, whatever that was, and worked out of her house in Port Credit, just west of Toronto, beside the GO train tracks. “I don’t need their money,” she went on. “Neither does Hal. At least, I don’t think he does — I don’t know what his financial situation is. You don’t, do you?”

  “I have no idea what Hal’s financial situation is.”

  “Need money, I mean.”

  “No,” he said.

  If Hal’s problems were financial, Shoe might be in a position to help. Unlike Rachel, he was a millionaire, a little more than twice over, in fact, even more on paper. It was a situation that made him acutely uncomfortable whenever he thought about it, which he seldom did. He had never been particularly interested in money for its own sake. He appreciated its usefulness, but was not the least bit acquisitive. Bill Hammond had paid well and Shoe lived simply, his only extravagance being his house in Kitsilano, purchased with cash two years before, after the Princess Pete, the converted logging tug he’d lived on for a decade, had burned to the waterline. During his twenty-five years with Hammond Industries, Shoe had invested cautiously but well, and had built up a moderately comfortable nest egg for his eventual retirement. He’d also received the equivalent of two years’ salary from Bill Hammond for finding Patrick O’Neill’s killer. What had pushed him over the top, however, had been the stock, cash, and property Hammond had left Shoe in his will. In addition to being a minority shareholder in Hammond Industries, Shoe was also the proud owner of a more than slightly rundown motel and marina on the Sunshine Coast, north of Vancouver.