He’d sat in his apartment terrified while the couple upstairs fought. They were new to the building, a whip-thin woman and a stringy punk with a perpetual scowl. They had a baby and a girl about five. The fight — about nothing more than a glass of milk the kid spilled — started in the usual way, with raised voices, but it soon escalated, growing louder and more incoherent, with the baby wailing and the little girl screaming. Then someone got slapped hard. Furniture was knocked over. A door slammed and the man pounded down the stairs. The baby continued to wail but the little girl no longer screamed. He listened for the sound of her feet skipping across the floor and was relieved later when he heard them. The fight jolted him out of his torpor, reminded him of who he was, and told him he had to get out of there. At that moment, the only way out seemed to be through Mr. Pritchard’s jewellery store.
He told himself it would be easy.
·
What Donnie didn’t count on was Mr. Pritchard standing in front of a mirror when he crept up on him and he didn’t count on Mr. Pritchard turning on him and clawing the bandana from his face. He responded by punching the man in the face, hard enough to send him reeling back against the wall, breaking the mirror, and collapsing to the floor, unconscious. Donnie strangled him with the bandana. He grabbed the bag Mr. Pritchard had been about to empty into the safe, stuffed it into his shopping bag, and walked out the back door. He discarded the gloves he’d worn and the bandana in a garbage bin and went home.
Back in his apartment, he put the bag into the closet, put on the kettle for a cup of instant coffee, and sat down on the cot. He held his hands out in front of him and stared at them. He didn’t regret killing Mr. Pritchard. He had no choice. The old man could have identified him. He had no intention of going to jail. He’d struggled too hard to make a life for himself. He didn’t deserve to be punished for events he had no control over.
He made his coffee, took a few sips, then got the bag from the closet. He found a roll of bills and a smaller canvas bag he assumed contained jewellery or stones. He counted out the cash. Three hundred and fifty-two dollars. He chuckled ruefully. He’d killed the old man for grocery money. He checked the smaller bag, hoping for unset gemstones, and started. The small bag contained a gun and a box of bullets. He checked the gun carefully. It was loaded. He emptied the magazine and returned the bullets to the box. He put a few dollars on the coffee table and returned the gun to the canvas bag with the rest of the money. He emptied the vacuum cleaner bag and stuffed the money and gun into it. Finishing his coffee, he lay down on the bed, and had a nap.
He woke two hours later feeling hungry. Although he was disappointed with his take, he felt cheered by the prospect of a decent meal out.
He chose a Korean restaurant several blocks away, eschewing the places he usually frequented when he seldom had more than enough for a plate of fries and a cup of coffee. He also thought he would be less likely to be remembered. He had heard that Asian people had a hard time identifying Caucasians and vice versa. Something to do with the facial features each group focused on. He had a nice but not extravagant meal, was polite but remote, and left an appropriate tip. He had brought a newspaper with him and pretended to be absorbed with it as he ate. No one seemed to pay any particular attention to him.
It was only after he got home and removed the money from the vacuum bag to recount it that he noticed every bill was marked with a red squiggle in the lower right-hand corner. Every single one. He guessed Mr. Pritchard probably marked the bills so he didn’t double-count.
He sat still, staring at the bills, holding his breath. The bank would know the squiggles. And if the bank knew, the police would soon know. They’d sweep the neighbourhood, asking if anyone remembered seeing the marked bills. He squeezed them hard. He wasn’t going to be able to spend any more of the money for a long time. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. He reprised his visit to the restaurant and decided he had acted appropriately.
Then he remembered the woman at the cash desk. She had examined the bills, turning each to face her, smoothing them, then dealing them into the cash drawer like a veteran card shark. He assumed it was her way of screening for counterfeits, but someone as precise and practised as she would have noticed Mr. Pritchard’s little red squiggles. No matter what nationality she was, if she could take in details of paper money that quickly, she could have taken him in too.
He checked his wallet, hoping he had used only his own money. He still had forty dollars. That meant he had used three fives and a ten with the red squiggles.
He wanted to get up and leave, pack a bag, and walk away. But any abrupt move on his part might raise red flags. He decided to wait for his last unemployment cheque, then let the landlord know he would be moving on at the end of the month. He’d go to the landlord and hold out the cheque helplessly. “This is my last cheque. I guess I’ll have to move in with my mother for a while.” The landlord would ask about his mail. He’d tell him he’d arranged to have the post office forward it.
He stared at the money. He should get rid of those bills with the red squiggles, take them out to a vacant lot and burn them. Instead, he bundled them together with the gun and returned them to the vacuum cleaner bag.
·
Lloyd appeared at the desk, pulling a load of suitcases on a dolly.
“I see that the Sawchucks have arrived,” said Margaret.
“You’d think those grandchildren of theirs could have carried the luggage,” Rudley sniffed.
Lloyd grinned. “They ain’t very big.”
Margaret lowered her voice. “Are they little people?”
“Guess so,” said Lloyd and added, “I guess ’cause they’re just little kids.”
“How little?” Rudley demanded. “The Sawchucks implied they were teenagers.”
“Little,” Lloyd persisted. “Maybe eight.”
“Damn.”
Margaret gave Rudley a nudge as the door opened and Doreen and Walter Sawchuck hobbled in. “Rudley, mind your manners.” She came out from behind the desk to greet the new arrivals. “Mr. and Mrs. Sawchuck. It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Rudley.” Walter peered at the desk. “Rudley?”
“Did you have a good trip?”
“Exhausting,” said Doreen as Margaret trotted across the lobby to get her a chair. “Our son-in-law drove all the way from Rochester. We wanted to fly but they wanted to take the car to Montreal to catch their plane to Europe.”
“He never wants to stop as often as we need to,” said Walter.
“Which must be every ten minutes,” Rudley murmured, cognizant of Walter’s prostate problems.
“He’s all right,” Doreen said. “But…”
“Our daughter likes him, I guess,” said Walter.
“That’s a nice arrangement then,” said Margaret. “Why don’t we just have Rudley sign you in. You can rest a bit, then we’ll help you to your room.” She patted Mrs. Sawchuck on the arm. “I’m going to run out to the kitchen and get you a nice, cold drink. What would you like?”
“Just sparkling water,” Doreen said. She paused, waving her hand. “No, lemonade. But no ice.”
“It hurts our teeth,” said Walter.
“My teeth are starting to hurt too,” Rudley muttered. “From clenching them.” He put on a smile. “You usually enjoy your trip from Rochester.”
“Yes,” they said in unison. Walter started to say something, then stopped as Doreen tugged at his jacket.
The door opened and a tall man with a beard and a short woman with frizzy hair entered. The man turned and said impatiently, “Come on.”
The woman turned and said, “You know what we discussed.”
Two children entered, their hands clasped behind their backs. The man stepped forward. “I’m Jim Danby. My wife, Delia, and our children, Ned and Nora.”
“Trevor Rudley.”<
br />
“Say hello to Mr. Rudley,” the woman cued the children.
“Hello, Mr. Rudley,” they chorused.
The man sighed.
“We were expecting teenagers,” said Rudley.
“Oh,” said the man, “not teens, twins. I guess you didn’t catch that.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, no matter,” said Danby. He turned to the children. “Now, I want you to pay attention to Grandma and Grandpa Sawchuck.”
“Yes, sir,” the children murmured.
“Good.” He reached into his pocket and slipped the kids each a bill. They looked at them, shrugged, and stuffed them into their pockets.
Mr. Danby turned toward the door. His wife was already halfway out.
“Will you be staying for lunch?”
“No, Mr. Rudley. We have to be on our way. We have a plane to catch.”
“I hear you’re going to Switzerland,” said Margaret, who had returned with the drinks and was fussing over Mrs. Sawchuck, who was fanning herself vigorously with a newspaper.
“Yes,” Danby said and disappeared out the door after his wife.
“That plane must be taxiing as we speak,” said Rudley.
“He’s always hell bent for leather,” Walter said crossly.
“He’s anxious about being on time,” said Doreen. “It isn’t easy in the airports these days.”
“Which is why I try to avoid them,” said Rudley.
“Will the children be having lunch?” Margaret gave them an encouraging smile.
They smiled back.
“If they want to,” said Walter. “Although I don’t know how much more they can stuff in.”
“We stopped at McDonald’s,” said Doreen.
“Perhaps some dessert,” said Margaret. “I know Gregoire has a lovely chocolate pie chilling in the refrigerator. If you’ll come into the dining room, I’ll get you some pie and something to drink.”
The children followed her into the dining room.
Doreen stopped them as they passed her. “Remember,” she said. “Six o’clock.”
Nora rolled her eyes. “Yes, Grandma.”
“Say ‘thank you, Mrs. Rudley,’” said Doreen.
After a pregnant pause, both children turned and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Rudley.”
Lloyd escorted the Sawchucks to their room and returned for the luggage.
“Twins,” Rudley muttered.
“Both of them,” said Lloyd.
Margaret came out of the dining room. “They seem like nice children, Rudley.”
“I’m sure Doreen told me they were teenagers when she made the reservations.”
“Perhaps in her mind they are, Rudley.”
“That could be true,” said Rudley. “After all, in her mind a spider is a matter of national security.”
“And children grow up so much faster these days. Eight-year-olds today probably seem like the thirteen-year-olds of yesteryear.”
“I’m not sure how I feel, Margaret, about the Pleasant being responsible for such young children in their parents’ absence.”
“The Sawchucks are responsible for them.”
“That would be a novelty. I haven’t known them to be responsible for anything since I met them.”
“Now, Rudley, the children are quiet and polite. I’m sure they won’t be a bit of trouble for anyone.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m going up to make sure the Sawchucks are settled in.”
He listened to her quick steps up the stairs and grinned. Most nimble feet west of the Bolshoi, he thought. Then the children came to mind and the smile vanished. It was a shame to see children at eight being thought of as teenagers. When he was eight, he couldn’t even imagine being a teenager. His days were full of bicycles and sleds and baseballs and tramping around in the woods with his pal, Squiggy Ross. He shook his head with nostalgia. Dear old Squiggy, that winsome lad with the blond curls and gap-toothed grin, now bald and toothless, squatting on a corner in downtown Galt. But at eight, he and Squiggy didn’t have a care in the world. He found it repulsive that children as young as seven were tarted up and expected to take an interest in the opposite sex. He barely knew he was supposed to be interested in girls until he turned thirteen and his father gave him the talk. Not easy for his father, who, although an affectionate father, was not accustomed to intimate conversations with his sons. Of course, it helped that he was a medical doctor with charts and diagrams. He delivered the talk as if he were lecturing a class of medical students. When the lecture ended, Rudley was horrified but not much better informed. And to think that five-year-olds were subjected to such information!
“Rudley” — Margaret appeared in front of the desk — “you look as if you’ve swallowed something disagreeable.”
“Children grow up too fast these days, Margaret.”
“That’s what my mother used to say.”
“Makes me long for that age of innocence.”
“Yes, children were working in the coal mines then.” Margaret turned toward the dining room. “I’ll nip in and see how they’re getting along.”
Rudley shook his head. He didn’t agree with child labour, not that he discounted the discipline such work encouraged. The Victorians had one thing right: Children should be seen and not heard. He paused and smiled a cheery smile. Preferably not seen and not heard. Preferably several miles away. Preferably on their own continent. People should be incubated in cocoons, he decided, and emerge as complete adults. He thought for a moment, then nodded. Yes, a much more sensible arrangement.
Chapter Four
Five days after Mr. Pritchard’s death, the Fredericton newspapers reported that a woman had witnessed a man crossing the parking lot behind the jewellery store at about the time the murder was believed to have occurred. She couldn’t offer a good description as he was wearing a floppy hat that obscured his face. Besides, she was mainly focused on the shopping bag. It was brown with a big purple iris on it. She remembered that because it came from a gourmet food shop where she sometimes bought gifts but couldn’t afford to frequent on a regular basis.
The newspaper item left Donnie cold. He never imagined anyone would notice the bag. He’d taken it because it was the sturdiest shopping bag he had. He’d been in the store just once, to buy a Christmas gift for his boss, who had a thing about smoked salmon. His gaze darted over the coffee table, the newspaper he was holding now collapsed in his lap. He shook his head, incredulous. What if he went to jail because of a five-dollar bill with a red squiggle and some foodie with an eye for bags with logos?
He had to get rid of the bag and hope that no one else had paid any attention to it. He knew his thinking wasn’t logical but, in his mind’s eye, he saw thousands of people watching the news item and discussing it at water coolers, people at the Gourmet Shoppe straining to remember likely suspects, people in the neighbourhood trying to remember who they’d seen carrying that bag. He was glad he had worn the hat but now he’d have to get rid of that too.
He waited until dark, tore the incriminating logo off the bag, and flushed it. He rolled up the brown bag and put it into a plastic one along with the floppy hat. He ducked out of his apartment and deposited the bag in a garbage bin. Then he went into Harvey’s and ordered a burger. He noticed one woman staring in his direction but then he realized she was near-sighted and was trying to read the menu. He went home, ate his burger, and considered his situation. In the end, he decided it was best to proceed with his previous plan: collect his last cheque, which was scheduled to arrive in the next couple of days, wait out the few days until the end of the month when the rent was due, then hand in the key to his landlord, reasoning it would look suspicious if he left precipitously.
But something would happen two days later that would change his mind.
·
The auxiliary police offi
cers in their bright yellow vests were merely calling at a house where a citizen had reported an abandoned bicycle. Donnie didn’t linger at the window long enough to see them take the bicycle and wheel it to their truck. When he saw the officers he closed the blinds and went into the bathroom, anticipating their knock, waiting for them to go away.
Maybe they were searching the neighbourhood for clues. Maybe someone saw him walking home with the bag and its faded purple iris. Maybe they had found his hat in the garbage bin. He couldn’t imagine they would check every garbage can, but maybe in a murder case they did, especially since — if the newspapers were correct — George Pritchard was a much-loved man and the community, in the words of the police chief, was incensed at the killing of an eighty-five-year-old. And for what? the proprietor of Around the World with Tea was quoted as saying. The few dollars his old friend George would have had in the till after the half-day Wednesday?
He thought about the crumpled bills with the red squiggles. He took the money because he needed it. He hadn’t planned to kill the old man. He froze as he heard a knock at the door, then relaxed when the door across the hall opened to a girl’s voice and laughter.
He took a deep breath and ventured out into his sitting room. He thought for a moment, then started to pack a bag, hesitating before he took the gun from the vacuum cleaner and shoved it into his shaving kit. He spent the night roaming his apartment in the dark with the curtains drawn, praying that his cheque would arrive on time.
The cheque was in his mailbox the next morning. He cashed it, picked up his suitcase, and left.
·
Rudley was at the desk when the children came down.
Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant Page 3
