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hours. He had cut the alexandrite in what was called a cushion cut—a
slightly rounded square—then surrounded it in a double halo of dia-
monds, and set it in an eighteen-karat rose-gold band. He might
wear it for a while, on his pinky finger, or on a chain around his
neck. He hated the idea of putting it back in its velvet box, in a
drawer somewhere, where it would gather dust and be forgotten. His
own wedding ring was a plain rose-gold band, meant to match the
alexandrite. Should he take it off and put it in its velvet box, too?
What he wanted to do, though he couldn’t articulate why, was swal-
low them both. He wanted the rings lodged inside him somewhere,
visible only via X-ray, extracted only via autopsy. He hoped someone
would find the other rings. He wanted to swallow them as well. The
little bird’s nest ring with the hidden moonstone was his favourite. It was the first time he had not simply taken a strand of gold wire and
bent it to his will—it was the first time he had asked the wire, Where do you want to go? And he had ended up with this sort of bird’s nest, without meaning to, without intending to. He had never told anyone this, not even Vera. He told Vera that he had meant it to look
that way, but in truth the ring had made itself.
He took another sip of bourbon. He cupped his hand around the
alexandrite and watched the green gemstone slowly turn red, adjust-
ing to the light. There was a place he could get to—not all the time, just sometimes, alone in his studio—where he could feel the consciousness of the metal he was working with, of the gemstones. But
he hadn’t felt that in so very long.
Where was the moonstone ring now? At the bottom of the lake?
In the belly of some prehistoric-looking fish?
The year he’d met Vera had been the strangest year of his life until
now. It had begun with his parents’ death and ended with his mar-
riage. From the heaviness of grief to the sweetness of new love. Vera’s sharp observations, her perfect hands, the way she always had an unlit Celo_9780735235823_4p_all_r1.indd 141
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cigarette in her mouth when she was reading. “This is where I want
to be,” she’d said, the afternoon they’d driven around Whale Bay and
found themselves looking at a little bungalow with a for sale sign in the yard. Elevated, so that one could see the ocean but not have to
bear the brunt of its merciless winds. A part of town where university professors lived, known as The Hill. An outbuilding in the back—
this would be his studio. In those early days he could feel her against him, even when she was in another room. When he saw her, he’d run
his hands through her long black hair until he reached her waist. The way she paced their living room, clicking her lighter, while she
rehearsed her lectures.
Even their first fight—he had been short with her in the grocery
store after she’d chided him for buying bottled salad dressing instead of making it himself—had ended with them doubled over in the parking
lot, howling with laughter. “We’ll never go back,” Denny said. “We’ll never go grocery shopping again.”
And then, of course, the day they’d gone to the pound and returned
home with Scout.
He put the alexandrite ring in his mouth and looked at Lewis,
who was still throwing the ball for his dog. He tried to swallow the
ring but feared it would lodge in his throat.
Lewis took the ball from Scout and told him to sit, then lie down,
then roll over, before he threw it. “He’s amazing,” he said to Denny.
“Did you train him?”
“Vera,” said Denny, out the side of his mouth. He took the ring
from under his tongue, stuck it in his pocket. He hoped Lewis hadn’t
noticed.
“What else?” asked Lewis. “What else can he do?”
“He’ll play dead,” said Denny, a sudden surge of alcohol like a
blast through his consciousness, and he shot Scout with an imaginary
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gun. “Bang,” he said. The dog rolled onto his back, his tail wagging.
Lewis erupted in applause.
“He’ll do almost anything,” said Denny, and topped up his and
Lewis’s glasses. “Scout, walk!” And the dog went up on his haunches,
crept across the living room. “Scout, under arrest!” And the dog
leapt up on the wall, his paws up, as if he were about to be frisked.
“Yes,” said Lewis. “Yes!”
The bourbon rushed through his veins and Denny saw it, clear
in his mind—Scout leaping from Vera’s car, after a squirrel per-
haps, running onto the frozen lake, and Vera running after him.
Their footfalls kicking up snow. The snow balling in clumps on
Scout’s legs. Then: skidding onto the ice, paws splayed. Looking
back at Vera.
Why not call him back from the lake’s edge?
Why not whistle?
He was a very good dog. Even if he were on the scent of some-
thing, Vera could have gotten him to come back to her. She wouldn’t
have needed to run after him. She wouldn’t have needed to run out
onto the lake.
“Scout,” said Denny. “Come.” And the dog came immediately,
sat by his feet, and looked up at him.
Had Scout fallen through a patch of thin ice? Had she saved him
and then fallen in herself? Maybe. But could he live with the uncer-
tainty? No.
“Was—” he started. “Was Scout wet when you found him?”
“What’s that?”
“New Year’s Day. When you went out to Squire Point. When you
found Scout, was his fur wet?”
Lewis looked at him, then up at the ceiling. He shook his head.
“No. I mean, it was snowing but I don’t think so, no.”
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“She wouldn’t have walked onto the ice. She wasn’t stupid—why
would she walk out onto a frozen lake?”
“I don’t know.”
“She wouldn’t have done that,” said Denny. “And the little boy—
his fingerprints were in her car. Why won’t you listen to me?”
“I am listening to you.”
“I don’t mean you. I mean—why aren’t they investigating the
boy more thoroughly? Why isn’t anyone doing anything?”
“We questioned him. Thoroughly.”
“And it stil doesn’t make sense. Why did she suddenly drop the
phone?”
“The boy says Scout jumped out of the car—look—listen, I do
believe they did everything—”
“No,” said Denny. “You don’t believe that. I can tell. I want to
talk to him. I want to talk to the boy.”
“Denny, stop,” said Lewis. “She drowned.”
Did she? Is that what had happened? Denny thought of the things
Lewis had told him about Leo Lucchi, the boy’s father: Such a loser, really. As far as I can tell, guy’s never had a real job. Lives over by the fac-tory—yeah, over there. Lewis had told him how Leo had bruised up his youngest son’s face. He’d even shown him an old mug shot of Leo,
even though he wasn’t supposed to.
“You told me
you wanted to be a detective,” he said to Lewis.
“Well, be one.”
“What do you want me to do?” Lewis looked at Denny. He
lobbed the ball to Scout again and the dog went shooting after it.
“Let me talk to the boy.”
“I can’t do that,” said Lewis. He took another sip of his bourbon.
“I mean, for so many reasons I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“Then let me talk to Leo. Get him in a corner.”
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“He left town, Denny,” said Lewis. “Look, I get it, but you’re
drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”
He squinted at Lewis. “You’re also drunk.”
“I am,” said Lewis. “I am and I shouldn’t be.” He looked down at
his uniform. “I’ll be back tomorrow to walk Scout. Get some rest.”
Denny took another swig of bourbon, and another, until he felt
maniacal with power and possibility. Scout was at his feet, tongue
out, waiting for him to throw the ball again. Fine, he thought, his
chest rising in great heaves, I will find a way to talk to the boy myself.
I wil find Evelina’s son and I wil talk to him. I wil ask him what Scout was running after. I will ask why Vera didn’t call his name.
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C h a p t e r N i n e t e e n
Lewis
Lewis watched Scout noodle around in the backyard, the sky a
perfect blue above his head, the sun hot on his skin. He whistled,
then pulled a dog biscuit from his pocket and placed it in Scout’s
warm mouth. He tried to stop himself from feeling slightly joyful
that Denny had asked him to look after Scout for the whole day. He’d
told Lewis that his arthritis was so bad that he couldn’t get out of bed, but Lewis suspected he was horribly hung over from yesterday’s bourbon binge. He wondered if he should do more for his friend, beyond
looking after his dog. Get him in a support group of some kind. On
the other hand, it wasn’t as if Denny was dying—all he needed was better medication for his arthritis, some counselling for his grief and depression, and physical therapy. The body responded physically to
emotional pain, Lewis knew that was true.
For the most part, their friendship was without tension, although
yesterday Denny had started sputtering about wanting to track
down Leo and his son. Lewis wanted to shake his friend. Snap out
of it! Go outside! Get out of bed! Walk your dog! Let’s go! Come on,
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Denny! Wake up! You didn’t drive your wife to suicide! And no one
killed her either!
The past four months had been some of the most disappointing
and frustrating in Lewis’s career. They’d had Leo. They’d had him!
They had the rifle. But it hadn’t been fired. And there was no bullet wound in Vera’s body. Her death was ruled a drowning. A tragic
accident—her running onto the ice after her dog, perhaps. No connec-
tion between Leo and Vera. Bad luck: the death blamed on the harsh
winter, which was over. There was no reason why Leo—or Jesse, for
that matter—would want to kill the woman. There was no evidence of
anything. The detectives had moved on to other cases, other crimes.
And it was likely she had drowned. Her body had been found,
autopsied, and then buried. There were no signs of foul play. The dog could well have run onto the lake. She could have gone after him.
Scout had wanted Lewis to go out onto the lake that day. He must have known. If Lewis had ventured out, could he have saved her? He
wondered how far under the ice she’d been, as he’d stood and watched
from the shore. He wondered how long it took to die.
It had been so satisfying, for a time, to have a villain, if only for Denny’s sake. Lewis had spent four months hating Leo, praying
for justice. Leo had become the devil in Lewis’s mind, especially after Lewis had seen those little boys—the look of terror in their eyes. But now Leo was just some man, some falsely accused man, who had gotten remarried and moved away.
Now it was back to business as usual. Weeks without a single
interesting call. He hadn’t become a police officer to change the
world—he wasn’t that naive—but he did believe in his ability to
change things on a small scale. For instance, what he was doing
now—helping Denny look after Scout, being there for a grieving
man. It counted for something.
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He would apply to be a detective this year. His reports were good
and thorough—he even carefully filled out reports for throwaway
stuff like public urination. He was detail-oriented. He was depend-
able. Of course, there were other options. Canine unit. He looked
down at Scout and smiled. That might be okay. Bomb squad. Or he
could get into administration. Sergeant, lieutenant, captain, deputy
chief. His whole life stretched out in front of him. It would be a
good life.
“Okay then, boy,” Lewis said to Scout. He tapped his thigh and
Scout heeled beside him, pausing to sniff something and then to
look up at Lewis. Lewis felt so happy walking the dog down the hill
to downtown Whale Bay that he found himself skipping a bit, and
Scout picked up his pace in response. They passed the movie theatre,
Billy’s Burgers, the grocery store, Marco Polo’s Pizza, a Chinese res-taurant, a corner store. The two arrived at Lewis’s apartment so
quickly that Lewis decided to walk all the way to the beach, to pro-
long the feeling. He’d forgotten how wonderful it was to have a dog.
His little border terrier had died when Lewis was a teenager, and if
he thought about him long enough, his eyes welled with tears.
“Look at what a great dog this is!” He couldn’t help it—he said it
loudly to a woman sitting on a park bench and she looked up at him
and laughed. He’d never felt so delighted. He was always a little tired on his days off, after a long stretch of tedious shifts, but today was different. He wouldn’t spend the whole day watching TV, like he usually did.
“I love you,” he said to the dog, within earshot of the woman still,
and heard her laugh behind him. “I love you and I miss you.” He was
talking to Scout and his boyhood dog; he could almost see them
both, past and present together.
It was some kind of day. Late afternoon now, and the sky every
shade of pink. The light spread out over the ocean. Lewis and Scout
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walked to the edge of the water and he unclipped the leash and let
the dog wade in. Would Scout swim? He would! The wonderful dog
paddled toward the pink light, then spun and paddled back to the
shore. He did this for some time before Lewis realized the dog
wanted him to throw a stick. “Fetch!” he yelped, too loudly, too
boisterously, wanting to jump in the air, to run into the waves and
splash around with the dog. “Yah,
yah, yah!” He threw his hands
into the air and spun around. “Yah, yah, yah!” A few people were
staring at him, including the woman on the bench, who was walk-
ing toward him. “Yah, yah, yah!”
He felt more alive than he had felt at any other time since moving
to Whale Bay. A small place. A place that threatened to make him
small. He did not want to be a small person. He had big plans for
himself. He would move to the city. He would be a detective. He
outstretched his arms, felt the April sun on his face. What a winter!
So much snow, followed by so much rain. And now this sudden heat.
He wanted to do a handstand, right there, on the beach, and be met
with thunderous applause.
The only being who was as happy as he was in that moment
was Scout, who had pulled himself out of the water and was smil-
ing, panting, tail wagging, waiting for the stick to yet again be
thrown. “Yah!” Lewis tossed the stick into the ocean and Scout
plunged in after it, and Lewis ran in as well—why not?—it was hot
as hell out here! Live! He waded up to his knees before he felt the
cold and stopped.
It was too cold. Even such joy couldn’t mask how cold the ocean
was. Okay then. He backed out, sorry that he had done such a thing,
for his shoes and socks and most of his pants were sopping wet, and it felt as though he were wading through quicksand. Hilarious, though,
not a tragedy! He laughed and pul ed off his shoes and socks, and
rolled his pant legs and sat on the hot sand. The sun was as bright
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and strange as a nuclear bomb. The world was some sort of fantastical creation, at this moment existing only to delight him and the wonderful dog. “Scout!” he cried and the dog ran toward him and sat by
his side. He ran his hands through the dog’s wet fur. He closed his
eyes and wished that he and Scout were not in front of the frigid
Pacific Ocean, but rather the tepid water of one of the lakes back
home. Full of weeds, sure, and speedboats, but he and Scout could
swim together, the sun on their backs. He imagined his father waving
to them from the shore, his baseball cap resting on his knee. His
father would have liked Scout. His father loved dogs, had loved his
little border terrier with the same intensity as Lewis. He could still hear his father’s voice in his head. What his father would be saying at this very moment—what his father would have said as Lewis ran into
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