by Eric Wright
“Who owns this?”
“Dakin,” Caxton said. “The guy who wrote the play they’re practicing. After he opened that bed-and-breakfast, he had to find somewhere quiet away from the phone. That’s what I heard.”
“Can you get from the cottages to this concession road?” Wilkie asked. The three men were in Caxton’s office studying an aerial survey of the river shore.
“There’s one place. There.” Caxton put his finger on a spot behind one of the cottages. “See, you’d have to walk through the bush here to the trail, then go along the trail until you were behind the Cooks’ place, there, and then go up to the road from there. But, see, there’s the ravine behind the Cooks’ place. You can’t get up to the trail, let alone the road, not straight up.”
“Might take some time to find the way if you didn’t know it, but it could be done by someone who knew the area.”
“Oh, sure. I could do it. So could Marlow.”
Wilkie waited until he and Copps were alone in the car, ready to go home. “You see how this area works. For a stranger there’s only one easy way in and out, along the trail. But if it was a stranger, he might not want to come running out of the bush after he shot Marlow. He might just find his way through to the Beavis cottage and stay the night. Wait until it’s safe to come out.”
“When would that be?”
“That would be hard for him to know, so he keeps his head down. Maybe by Sunday it looks safe, no search parties, nothing. Then two kids go for a walk and he has to go back into hiding.”
Copps saw the point. “You think he’s still around?”
“I don’t know where he is; I don’t know who he is. I don’t know if he’s a local or if he’s a stranger. Marlow threw his weight around, I hear. Remember that town in the States where they shot the town bully in the cab of his pickup truck at high noon on market day, and they couldn’t find any witnesses?”
“This is Ontario, boss, not the fucking Ozarks. Someone shot this guy because he was diddling his wife. Bet your life.”
“Possibly. I don’t want any surprises. We’ll put a car down past the bridge, where we can watch the end of the trail. We’ll put another one, a plain one, on that concession road.”
On the way back to Sweetwater, Copps talked to Wilkie of another possibility. “Caxton was Betty Cullen’s friend. Did you know that?”
“So I heard. Boyfriend, he told me.”
“Kind of a dumb-looking peckerhead, but maybe we should check him out.”
“How would we go about that?”
“How do you mean?”
“You say ‘check him out.’ What are you talking about? Find out who he is? I know who he is. Find out whether he had anything against Marlow? He hated the guy. So what’s to check out? Fact is, ‘check him out’ doesn’t mean fuck-all, it’s bullshit from some TV show. When you get a real suggestion, let me know.”
“Jesus, boss, I just mean the guy’s a suspect.”
“That, he is. So get him to show you around, get some idea of what makes him tick. I figure if you keep him with you, you can keep an eye on him. But go round on your own, too. Make up something that’ll make the locals feel better. Tell the world you’re looking for a drifter, someone who may have come to town any time recently but probably left on Friday night. Keep your ears open. Find out about Caxton’s routine if he has one. I’ll do the same, but see what people tell us about him. See if he’s included in the people that the locals saw around on Friday. Find out what the locals think of him. Find out how big this rift was between him and Marlow.”
“Big enough to put a body in?”
“That’s more like it. And lighten up, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t your brother.”
“You really think Caxton might be involved?”
“The way Mel Pickett tells it, Caxton was surprised to find out whose body it was. As I said, I don’t want any surprises.”
CHAPTER 7
Pickett’s last stop before supper was the Anglican Church hall, where Eliza was rehearsing her play.
When Pickett arrived at the rehearsal, only Eliza and Dennis Corning were still there, getting ready to leave. Eliza hurried forward as Pickett walked through the door. “We’re just off,” she said. “You go ahead, Dennis. I’ll get Mel to drop me off. I have to talk to him about making a cupboard big enough to hide in.”Corning, looking as if this was news to him, shrugged, shook his head, shrugged again, then turned and left.
“Had a fight?” Pickett asked. “This morning upset you?”
“A bit. And we’ve had a bad afternoon. Did you know I’d given Dennis a little part? He’s replacing the man who played one of the servants, who dropped out. This other man drives a truck for the highways department and he’s been offered a lot of overtime on the weekends, so he won’t be available. It’s a tiny part but bloody Dennis is hopeless and we got into an argument about it.”
“Never teach your wife to drive a car,” Pickett said.
“What? Oh, I suppose so. That and some macho rubbish. And he disagrees with my direction. He’s such an arrogant … All he has to do is stand there with his arms at his side and say things like, There’s two men outside asking for you, and, Right you are, sir. But he keeps throwing himself about, acting. And he’s put on this weird accent; he’s not supposed to be English, the play takes place here; he’s supposed to be a mill worker helping out for the night, but Dennis is talking like a Mississippi sharecropper with a speech impediment. A black one.” Pleased with her wit, she smiled at herself, over the worst.
“It’ll be all right on the night,” Pickett said, the joke between them. He was not surprised. The morning had given Pickett some insight into Dennis Corning, and he suspected now that finding the body had been a defining moment in their relationship. He had read a story once in which the writer claimed that his hero, confronted with a sudden crucial test of courage, had passed the test and thereby instantly evolved from an unformed playboy into a man. He had admired the story when he read it, but it seemed simplistic to him now. What he had observed much more among adults he had come into contact with as a policeman was that in a crisis, a moment can occur in a relationship when one partner realizes the true nature of the other, his partner’s essential strength or weakness, goodness or its opposite. The defining moment. The word Eliza was searching for was “prick.”
“Not this year, it won’t. And John, our playwright, broke down in tears halfway through his speech. Pat has left him.”
“Pat Dakin? Gone?”
“Apparently. She says she can’t stay in this place any longer. She’s been trying to write a novel, did you know? I think she’s jealous of him, especially since she’s found out she can’t act, either. She’s been writing at their cabin while he’s been rehearsing and now she wants all her time to herself, so she’s gone to Toronto to find a place of her own.”
“She gone already?”
“Yesterday.”
“What’s the novel about?” Pickett asked. They were outside now, standing between their two vehicles.
“Oh, heaven knows. Herself, I would think. I don’t know. Maybe the problem is menopause.”
“It takes you in different ways,” Pickett agreed, remembering his own wife. For a time she had lost interest in cooking and housekeeping, wanting no company and finding pleasure only in her garden, which she groomed fiercely for hours and which bloomed as she faded. She came through it eventually, but for a while the gap between them had frightened him badly.
“Maybe she’s fallen for somebody else,” he joked.
“At her age?”
“She still looks pretty nimble to me,” Pickett said, irritated. “Anyway, what’s it going to do to the play?”
“John Dakin wants to give it up. With her gone, he won’t be able to keep the bed-and-breakfast place going. Too much of a strain, he says. And half of it belongs to her, and she wants her money back.”
“This is all kind of quick, isn’t it? I mean, did he unload this on all o
f you this afternoon? When did she announce that she was going?”
“He just told me. When he started crying, the rehearsal broke up and I asked Dennis to get us some coffee, and Dakin let it all out. I hardly know the man but he went into this sort of wail as if we were old friends. It was so naked. I just sat and held his hand, saying ‘there, there.’ I think it’s nice that men have learned to cry but I hope they hang on to a bit of the old restraint.”
“It must have had a background, been building up for awhile.”
“Started when she left the play, probably. He even told me they don’t sleep together. ‘Cohabit,’ he called it.” She snorted.
“He told you?” Pickett was shocked.
“Yes, it reminded me of a time when my mother told me about the trouble she and Dad were having in bed. I remember thinking I was much too young to know things like that.”
Pickett thought that every day with Eliza was a learning experience. “How will the others take it? Will they be disappointed after the work they’ve put in?”
“Oh, I’m not going to stop now. Dakin can’t take his play, even if he goes back to Toronto. I won’t let him. If necessary, you’ll have to play the host.”
Pickett laughed at the absurdity, then raised a question that had slightly puzzled him. “These people don’t mind taking orders from you?” Eliza was twenty-five, pretty, with a very nice body, all of which might irritate the minister’s wife, an Ottawa valley lady built like a fire hydrant.
“I haven’t given any orders yet. At the moment I read out the stage directions and get them to face the front and speak up. That’s enough for now. First, I have to find a new Tony Lumpkin. Any ideas?”
“Someone else quit?” So far, Pickett had acquired a very sketchy idea of what the play was about, and none at all of the characters.
“Sorry. That’s what started the trouble today. Tony Lumpkin was played by the boys’ high-school teacher from Sweetwater, but he’s had to drop out because his wife objects to all the time he’s away from home.”
“She took a look at you, probably. Can you find anyone else?”
“I once thought of asking Timmy Marlow, believe it or not. He used to hang around, offering to help. You must have seen him occasionally, earlier in the summer. He watched us sort out some of the parts at the beginning. We never had a Lumpkin for a long time; Dakin used to read the part because he’s not on stage much with him, at first, but then it got awkward, and I thought of asking Marlow, and then this schoolteacher appeared, and he was good at the part and helpful to me. Now I’m stuck again. By the way, we don’t have to stop everything out of some kind of respect, do we?”
“I’d say the show must go on. Why was Marlow hanging around in the first place?”
“I don’t know. Curiosity, maybe.” Her manner indicated that she knew very well.
“You?”
“Me?”
“I hear he was always on the prowl.”
“Oh, Mel.” She laughed. “That’s another play, called Lock Up Your Daughters. He wasn’t after me, not that I could tell. No more me than anyone else. He tried, like he did with everybody, but I saw him coming. His technique was a bit off-putting. It consisted of talking dirty and closing up on you from behind. I knew a boy like that when I was fifteen. He was a creep.”
Pickett could not stop himself. “What do you mean, talking dirty?”
“You know perfectly well. The kind of thing you usually get in a work situation with five or six men and one woman. He did it all by himself. Dirty compliments mostly. Lots of puns. He probably thinks that’s what they mean by oral sex.”
Pickett let it go. “What are you going to do? Any ideas?”
“Do you know someone called Craig Thompson? Works in the hardware store?”
“I’ve seen him. The son.”
“He does Benny Hill impersonations, apparently. He’s my only hope.” She leaned her back against the car door. “You think I should call it off, Mel?”
“You’ll have to ask yourself that one. Let’s get you home now.”
“I’ll give it a last try. You know, little bits of it sound quite real.” She opened the door of his car. “Are you okay for supper? You could eat with us, if you like.”
“No, thanks. I’ve been invited out. Ask me again, though. I’m going to stay up for the week. The weather’s promised to be good enough for me to finish the deck.” He climbed into the driver’s seat.
When they reached her door, she said, “I’ll come and look for you during the week.”
“You’ll probably find me in my cabin, writing a novel, like everyone else around here.”
Part Two
CHAPTER 8
“There’s been a lot of guessing,” Charlotte Mercer said, just before supper on the same day. “People are falling over themselves trying to figure which husband might have done it. They reckon Marlow could’ve run foul of any of half a dozen of them, and a few other people besides. People have been asking me if I know anything.”
“Why you?”“Don’t play dumb.”
“They should ask the OPP.” He knew what she meant, of course. Pickett’s background was common knowledge, and the town had watched him all day, close to the investigation. And Pickett’s admiration for Charlotte was common knowledge.
“Have a little rest now,” Charlotte said. “I have to make gravy. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready. Turn round.” She pushed his shoulder to make him turn over. “God, you’re a big bugger,” she said. She ran her hand over his head to make the remark friendly, giving the thick white bristles a tug.
“You had to be when I joined. They changed that, though, so as not to discriminate.” Pickett closed his eyes as she slid out of bed. She did not like to be looked at after they had made love, though she didn’t mind before, probably because she felt he would be less critical then. Pickett liked what he saw at any time, but he honored her diffidence.
It had been clear to him after the tenth or eleventh visit to the coffee shop that he had something going with Charlotte, or might have, or could have. In fact, even with every scrap of circumspection he could bring to bear, a prudence compounded of abstinence, a desire to avoid late-middle-age foolishness, and a distrust of what, after all, might be no more than a firefly glow at twilight, he found himself courting her.
It began with a shared cup of coffee whenever he came into the restaurant; this turned into a daily visit and then her offer to cook his Sunday supper the weekend she knew he was working hard to try to get the windows installed. It might have taken them a year to get to the next square, but then Pickett, by way of apology for his appearance at Sunday supper, mentioned the inadequacy of the washing facilities in his trailer—a pan of warm water was all he could manage then—so that he couldn’t clean up properly before supper with her and stayed gritty for the long drive back to Toronto afterward. She pointed out that she had a perfectly good bathroom and could probably lend him a towel if she was pushed. Still Pickett hung back, not sure of country ways and not wanting to upset the good thing he already had going, until the third or fourth weekend he came out of the bathroom and found her sitting on the edge of the bed in the room where he changed, looking nervous. Later on she said she had tried everything else and if that didn’t lead to anything, she was going to tell him to eat somewhere else.
That first time was alarming, and brief, but it was also terrific because she said she didn’t care, just having someone close to her again was enough, and as for him, just holding a woman he liked and being held in return was a pleasure he had nearly forgotten. Thereafter, even after his cabin was finished and his own washing arrangements had improved, though not to the point of a shower, he still arrived dirty on Sunday evening. Otherwise they would have had to invent a whole new dance to get into bed, and he liked coming out of the shower and finding her in bed, waiting to spend their half hour under the duvet before dinner, learning how much autumn still had left for them.
As far as they knew it was a secret
. The town knew only that they were friends. Charlotte was fiercely concerned to keep it so, not so much because of her good name but because she disliked anyone knowing anything about her private life. Pickett simply held his breath, struck with his good fortune and alive to every signal from Charlotte about the right decorum to use to protect their passion. He understood that no one these days, even in Larch River, was really interested anymore in lovemaking between unencumbered adults, even elderly ones, but if secrecy was what Charlotte wanted, he was certainly happy to play along, and he never suggested staying the night.
He scratched his belly and stretched out luxuriously under the duvet. He wondered how they would go on from here. Pickett had lived for long enough on his own that he had formed the habit of reflection, and one of the things he reflected about now was that it might not get any better than this. Sometimes it seemed like a powerful pessimistic streak, the conviction that there was nothing better to look forward to, but Pickett saw it as simply not postponing the present for the sake of the future, seizing the day, as it were. He had spent long enough when things were not as good as this, thinking that was normal and the way it was always going to be, not to know when things were good.
Age gave you self-consciousness; you never quite lost yourself even during the best of times, and while this meant that you could never feel immortal again, that time itself never stopped or even slowed down, it also meant that nothing good slipped by, or was taken for granted. Here now, he had just made love and been made love to by a lady who made him feel better—more at home, was how he put it to himself—than he thought anyone ever would again. He thought about her when he was working on the cabin, and he knew by the things she said when he walked into the café that she did the same. And pretty soon he would go downstairs and eat roast chicken, potatoes, carrots, and broccoli. (He hated broccoli, but Charlotte insisted that there had to be a green vegetable, and not peas every time. Everything else would be as good as roast chicken dinners got.)
