Buried in Stone

by Eric Wright

  When he stopped at the church hall on the following Sunday he learned that he had already been appointed stage carpenter, though there was nothing to be built yet. After that, he often found a reason to drop by on Sunday afternoons to see how things were going. Usually they were going poorly.

  The play was based on Goldsmith’s She Stoops to Conquer, transposed to nineteenth-century Ontario. Two Englishmen, on their way to the wedding of one of them, lose their way in a snowstorm and seek an inn for the night. They are diverted, mischievously, to the house where lives the family of the hero’s future bride, a lady he has never met, the marriage having been arranged through a third party. The Englishmen accept the house as an inn, treat the host as a servant, and the host, unaware that he is being mistaken for an innkeeper, gets angrier and angrier at the manners of his guests. Confusion reigns, the mistake is uncovered, and all ends happily.

  The playwright, John Dakin, had been forced by illhealth to give up his Toronto teaching job. In search of a less stressful way of life, he had come with his wife, Pat, to Larch River and opened a bed-and-breakfast, hoping that this with his pension would give them a reasonable living, and provide the leisure to pursue his ambition to write. He believed he had a commercial idea in rewriting Goldsmith, and he had formed the Larch River Players with the purpose of seeing where his script needed work. Eliza had gone down to one of the first readings to see if she could help with props, and found herself cast immediately as the heroine, the contracted bride/innkeeper’s daughter, who is aware of the mistake but thinks it a great lark and allows her bottom to be pinched to keep the joke going. No other woman under forty was trying out. She also took charge of props. And then, within a very short time, she was the director as well. Pickett got the history of this development from Eliza.

  Dakin had begun by directing the play himself, and was also playing the role of host/innkeeper. The trouble began with Pat Dakin, who was originally cast as the hostess, refusing to take his direction. He had tried to curb her movements a little, pointing out that her natural carriage was fine, there was no need to stride about like a male ballet dancer just because she was on stage. Feeling herself humiliated in front of the other actors, she flew into a temper and quit, and had to be replaced by the wife of the United Church minister, who took the part on condition the word fart was taken out of the script. But the problems mounted as the playwright/director made unreasonable demands on his amateur cast, and the actors got together one Friday night in the hardware store and decided that they would not carry on if he stayed as director.

  When the spokesperson put it to him, Dakin asked them rhetorically who else could do the job and was told they wanted Eliza to try; when she arrived, they told her what they had decided. “I’d seen this coming, and I had no intention of saying yes. I mean, all I wanted to do in the first place was show my willingness to get involved a little, if we were going to live here, but in the end, they said that it was either me in charge or no play. There wasn’t anyone else.”

  “Did you know anything about directing?” Pickett asked.

  “Not a thing, but I found a book which gave me some vocabulary, like what ‘stage left’ and ‘stage right’ mean. That keeps me slightly ahead of the actors. So far, we’ve managed.” She laughed. “The fact is, they love me and I love them, and I’m having a ball.”

  The police came back just as Pickett was thinking of quitting work for the day. The cars pulled up first beside the little house trailer he had lived in while he was building the cabin, then rolled forward to where he was cementing rocks into place for the first corner foundation of the platform he wanted to build in front of the porch. He was eager to get the platform done before winter, because with a decent deck out front he would be able to keep a supply of wood handy, and step outside for a log without breaking his ankle on a snow-covered rock. His whole building program had proceeded on such a system of seasonal priorities.

  Pickett put down his trowel and waited for Caxton and the two OPP officers to approach. He recognized them both for what they were. The younger of them, a slim, fair-haired man of about thirty, was unmistakable. The suit, the tie, the neat haircut and even neater mustache all proclaimed him a recently mustered plainclothes policeman. The other, older, perhaps forty-five, might have passed for a construction foreman dressed to see his lawyer: a bald head over a bushy mustache, hands that seemed too big even for the thick body, the dressy tie that created a culture clash with the check bush shirt, gray tweed jacket, and heavy boots. Judging by his clothes, he was the one who had gone down into the crevasse.

  Caxton made to introduce them but the older policeman was already shaking Pickett’s hand. “I wondered if there could be two of you,” he said.

  “Abraham Wilkie. Or his dad.”

  “Fuck you, Mel Pickett. My dad’s an old fart, like you.”

  “You guys know each other, I guess,” Caxton said.

  Pickett removed his hand from Wilkie’s clamp. “He used to work under me,” he explained to Caxton. “I used to wipe his nose for him.” He started to lead the way up the steps, then turned back. “Let’s stay outside.” He pointed to the wooden table and chairs assembled in the shade of a large birch tree. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  Wilkie gave up trying to think of an insult in exchange for Pickett’s, and the three men sat down while Pickett disappeared into the house. When he returned with cups, cream, sugar, and a cafetière of coffee, Wilkie saw his opportunity. “No croissants?” he asked.

  Pickett said, “I guess you’re not used to anything like this in Sweetwater, eh? But I do have an old enamel jug I picked up in a barn sale. I keep it under the bed to piss in to save going outside in cold weather. I could boil up a handful of coffee grounds in that, open a can of Carnation milk if that’d make you feel more at home.”

  “Doughnuts would be nice.”

  Pickett pressed down the plunger and poured out the coffee. “So what did you find?” he asked.

  But Wilkie had a lot he wanted to know first. “How long you been up here, Mel?”

  “This is my third year.”

  “Who built your cabin?”

  “He did,” Caxton said. “By himself.” Caxton’s interjection was quick and dismissive. Wilkie’s rediscovery of Pickett had put him in a larky mood but Caxton could not relax with this banter. The body they had found had drained all the cheeriness from his face.

  Wilkie stood up to take a good look at the cabin. “I’m impressed. Was it in a kit?”

  “It’s a hundred-year-old cabin he reassembled by himself.” Again Caxton spoke impatiently, wanting the topic disposed of.

  Wilkie ignored him. “I really am impressed. Can I have a look around?”

  They waited while he disappeared inside. Caxton took the chance to introduce Pickett to the younger policeman, who had been waiting to be noticed. “Brendan Copps,” he said. Copps thrust out his hand as soon as Caxton began the introduction.

  Wilkie called out from the door of the cabin, “You going to keep a pig, Mel? Few chickens?”

  “Not inside,” Pickett said. Our family hasn’t done that since my great-grandfather’s day Maybe I should, though. What’s it like? You remember?”

  Wilkie grinned.

  “So,” Caxton said loudly, signaling that it was time to get the meeting underway.

  Wilkie returned and took his seat, turning to Pickett. “I heard your name from Lyman here. An old cop, someone said, turning into a hermit. I had to see.”

  “He didn’t tell me he knew you,” Caxton said. “I couldn’t figure out why we were bothering you.” He looked around at the group as if to see who was in charge. “You guys need me? I’d like to get over to see Betty.”

  Wilkie held up a hand to retain Caxton, nodding to show he had heard the request. He hitched his chair close to the table. “I think we’ve got a homicide,” he said. “At the very least, leaving the scene of an accident.”

  Several seconds of silence followed this. Pickett looked at
Caxton.

  “Was it in bad shape?” Pickett asked.

  Wilkie said, “He’s been there a couple of days, I’d say. Some kind of animals found him, you know that. Hard to recognize, but his wallet was still there, and his watch.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a wristwatch and a wallet wrapped in a bandanna. He pulled the edge of the scarf and let the wallet unwrap itself on the table. “Lyman could identify him.”

  Caxton said, “It’s Timmy Marlow, Betty’s brother. I should have recognized the jacket when we were first up there.”

  Pickett, remembering Caxton’s reaction to the body, remembering thinking that Caxton was being squeamish, now thought, You probably did. You just didn’t know how you should react. Did you know Marlow hadn’t been around this weekend? Had Betty been worrying about him?

  When the silence had endured long enough, Pickett said, “You taking it to Sweetwater?”

  “I called forensic first. That place he’s in is like a stone coffin. I got down there with a rope but there’s no way we could bring him out without our equipment. Besides, they may find something when they’re lifting him out that I wouldn’t notice.” He met Pickett’s glance blandly, knowing that Pickett would realize that he was just passing on an unpleasant job.

  “Didn’t Betty miss him?” Pickett asked Caxton.

  “She didn’t say anything to me this morning,” Caxton said.

  “Does she know yet?”

  Caxton shook his head. “Christ, Mel, she doted on him. I’m not looking forward to telling her. She isn’t feeling too good already. She thought she was getting flu yesterday.”

  Copps, the younger OPP officer, shifted restlessly. Wilkie turned to him suddenly. “Brendan, why don’t you go back with the chief here? See if there are any messages on his fax for us. Start putting together the statements and our preliminary report. Okay? And Lyman, don’t go far away, eh? I have to ask Mrs. Cullen a few questions. I’d like you there.”

  “You just going to sit here and shoot the shit for a couple of hours?” Copps asked. The tone was almost insulting.

  Wilkie said, “I might. This guy and me go back a long way. I’d like to hear about this cabin. When you come back, if we’re still talking, wait in the road. Okay?” He stared at Copps until the policeman stood up. Caxton still looked a little lost, as if he wanted to stay.

  “You can leave us alone, Lyman,” Pickett said. “We haven’t seen each other for a while. Got to catch up. Here, Willis.” He picked the dog up and waited for the car to disappear down the road.

  CHAPTER 4

  When the cars left, Pickett said, “What’s the problem with your buddy?”

  “He’s restless, you know? Wants to arrest somebody”Pickett laughed. “The guy he wants left town two days ago, tell him. There’s no hurry. I’ll get us a beer.”

  “Not for me, Mel. I have to interview the citizens.”

  “More coffee, then?”

  Wilkie nodded. He picked up a book on bird-watching and leafed through it, grinning. “You into this now?” he asked.

  Pickett decided not to favor him with the truth. When he began building his cabin, it had not occurred to him that he might seem eccentric—he just wanted to build a cabin—but it soon became clear that he had better have a cover story, so he bought three books on birds and a pair of binoculars, and Larch River accepted him as an old widower who wanted a place to watch birds in peace. Odd, of course, but just comprehensible. Pickett did learn to identify three or four of the more obvious birds, but apart from cardinals and blue jays, he found them uninteresting. Now, to Wilkie, he said, “A whole new world has opened up to me, Wilkie, old son. Saw a yellow-bellied nit-picker this morning. They’re very rare in these parts.”

  Wilkie, though, smelled a rat, and protected himself from being sucked in. “It’s the red-assed curry-bird that you want to watch out for,” he said. “Really make your name, seeing one of them would.”

  While Pickett made coffee, Wilkie walked around the cabin, surveying the grounds. When he returned he asked, “What do you use the trailer for? Guests?”

  “I had to have somewhere to stay while I got this place up. I tried the bed-and-breakfast route. Once was enough.”

  “What was the problem? No croissants for breakfast? We’re not used to your big-city ways in these parts.”

  “Matter of fact there were croissants. One, anyway. And grapes, and an apple all cut up in artistic slices. Pretty dishes and napkins, too. The croissant, though, was still frozen in the middle. Afterward I went into town for something to eat. I decided that if I was going to spend any time here I’d better make some serious arrangements for eating and sleeping, so I bought the trailer.”

  “You really like it here?”

  “I haven’t had time to find out; I’ve been too busy building. I never planned to live here. I just wanted to see if I could build a log cabin like they used to.”

  “And that’s what you did. Just like that. A real pioneer.”

  “Nearly. They didn’t have chain saws, though.”

  “How long has it taken you?”

  “Two years, more or less. I didn’t know a thing about it, and now I know, I wouldn’t do it again.”

  “That’s true of anything I’ve ever built. Now …”

  “To start with I had no idea that it would be hard to find trees, you know. The pioneers had first-growth cedar to work with, but that’s all gone. Nobody in Toronto told me. But I found a guy who owned a tree plantation and he had what I wanted. I did cut it myself, and he arranged to have it hauled here. Then I peeled the logs, ready for the next spring.”

  “Were they dry enough to use then?”

  “I never got a chance to find out. Some bastard with a chain saw and a truck stole the lot in the winter.” Wilkie would hear the story eventually. Might as well hear it from Pickett now.

  Wilkie threw back his head, roaring with glee. “Then what’dyoudo?”

  “There was a bright side. People around here all heard about it, and when they stopped laughing they felt sorry for me, offered to help out, some of them. Nobody actually said he’d help me cut down some more trees but they would probably have joined in at a barnraising kind of thing. Anyway, one of them heard of a guy who knew of another guy near Bancroft who owned a gas station and had to take down an old log cabin to expand his business. So I made him an offer and he numbered all the logs as he dismantled the cabin. I got a trucker to bring them up here. Then one of my new friends came up with a cousin with an A-frame on the back of a one-ton truck, and between me, him, his cousin, and the A-frame we got it up in three days.”

  “It was kind of a kit, then?”

  Pickett understood that Wilkie wasn’t jeering, just trying to get a fix on how much he should admire Pickett’s achievement. It sounded like jeering, though. Pickett was very proud of his cabin, but he tried not to be a bore about the building of it. Wilkie, though, would have to be told. “I didn’t start with a broadax and a stand of virgin cedar, no,” he said. “But I learned a lot, even so. Let me show you how this place was put together.”

  Wilkie started to say something, looking at his watch, but Pickett ignored him. He cleared his throat. “For example, this cabin is twenty-five feet by fifteen. Know why?”

  Wilkie gave a quick shake of his head, a polite little shake between nods. Already his eyes had started to glaze.

  “Because they built them out of fifty-foot trees.”

  Wilkie tried to step farther back, to make breaking-off signs.

  Pickett said, “They cut the trees in half, see, to get the twenty-five-footers. Then the top half, the other twenty-five-footers, they cut into two pieces, one fifteen, one ten. You follow? Now they used the fifteen-footers along the sides, and the ten-foot pieces they split into rails to line the walls with. See what I mean? Come over here. See?”

  “I see, yeah, I see …”

  “Now come over here.” Pickett walked to the window. “See the way this window is framed? Two-by-ten-inch
lumber attached to the logs with dowelling. See? Take a look, go ahead. There’s one dowel, there’s another.”

  Wilkie said, “Mel …”

  “Now,” Pickett continued. “You must have wondered, too, why the roof doesn’t overhang the walls. Right? Well, that’s so it won’t collapse under the weight of snow. They notched the roof right into the walls, see? Tell you something else,” he added as Wilkie opened his mouth. “You ever heard the expression ‘putting on side’?”

  Wilkie shook his head.

  “Man I hired to do the plastering told me about that. Said some of the wives of the early pioneers used to get their husbands to pretty up the outside of the cabins by putting on siding. Get it? Now …”

  “Mel, I have to get back to Sweetwater today …”

  “Right you are, old son. There is a lot more to tell, though, if you’re ever interested. You should build one yourself. I’ll show you how.”

  Wilkie said, “I did think of it once. I won’t now, though. Are you going to live here?”

  “I never planned to, but I’m starting to feel at home here. I’ve still got to civilize it. Put in a shower. Bring it into the twentieth century. I plan to spend weekends in the cabin, probably until the end of January. Then I’ll go to Florida for a couple of weeks, then spend a week or so in Toronto, then another couple of weeks in England, and then, if there’s still no sign of spring, I’ll go back to Florida to wait. What’s your life like?”

  Wilkie took a long pull of his coffee and walked to the window. “I miss Toronto,” he said finally, his voice indicating that he was no longer bantering. “I miss the city. Working in Sweetwater is like being in the Mounties. When I was off-duty in Toronto I was really off-duty, but in Sweetwater everyone knows I’m a cop. And they shift us around, too. My wife hates that. If I get posted to northwest Ontario, I think she’ll take off.” He stopped, looking slightly ashamed of his confession. “And yet you’re totally happy up here in Rainbow County.”