by L. R. Wright
Mrs. Grayson reached from the cocoon of her quilt to touch Alberg on the arm. She gazed at him searchingly, but didn’t speak.
Alberg found he had nothing to offer her; no speculation, no comfort, no judgment. Finally he patted her hand. “May I look at his room now, please?”
Chapter 23
“DID YOU HEAR about Steven Grayson?” said Warren, late that afternoon. “He fell off a cliff.”
Annabelle laughed. “Oh sure he did.”
“He did,” Warren protested. He was in Annabelle’s kitchen, pouring himself some coffee. “Don’t laugh about it, Annabelle. He died, for Pete’s sake.”
Annabelle set down her iron. “Died? But—what happened?” she said, sitting down at the table with him.
“I told you, Annabelle,” said Warren patiently. “He fell off a cliff. Yesterday, it happened.”
“But he—I heard he’d come home.”
“He did come home. It happened here. Over on Thormanby Island. You know that bluff at Buccaneer Bay? Well that’s where it happened.” He shook his head. “It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?”
“Now, Warren,” she chastised him. “We don’t know anything for sure. We just guessed, and we could’ve been wrong.”
“It’s water under the bridge now, anyway,” said Warren. “Listen, Annabelle.” He helped himself to cream and sugar. “I’ve got to talk to you.”
Everybody in the world wants to talk to me, thought Annabelle, exasperated. But she glanced at her brother and thought, you practically can’t see the man’s face for the worry on it.
“I saw the folks yesterday,” he said, and drank some coffee.
Annabelle’s eyes narrowed. She got up and returned to the yellow dress she’d been ironing. She’d known that was why he’d come; it was almost always why he came. And she admired his steadfastness, though in this case there was no point to it.
“And how are they?” she said politely.
“Fine, just fine,” said Warren. He seemed distracted, though, and nervous. “I gave them a picture of you and the kids,” he said.
“You what?” said Annabelle, astounded.
“Remember when I took one that day, a couple of months ago it was, out in your garden?”
“I remember. But you certainly didn’t tell me you were taking it for them.”
“I wasn’t,” said Warren quickly. “But it turned out so good. And they hunger for a look at you, you know that, Annabelle.”
“Now don’t start, Warren.”
“You’ve gotta do something about this,” he said doggedly. “It’s just so stupid. Those kids, they need grandparents. They could be out there right now, swimming in the pool, eating the vegetables.”
“They get vegetables right here,” said Annabelle, furious. “And they don’t need a swimming pool. Why they’ve got the ocean to swim in, for goodness’ sake.”
Warren stood up and went to the door. He looked outside, his hands in his pockets, and for a while neither of them spoke.
Annabelle hung up the dress. It was a yellow one that hugged her breasts and revealed her throat and her arms and had a full skirt that swished around her legs. She would wear it tomorrow, when she saw Bobby, she decided, plucking a blouse from the ironing basket. A small, pink blouse—Camellia’s. Annabelle thought about Steven. It was very hard to believe that someone so young—someone she’d actually known—was suddenly dead. She had to be more stern with Camellia about climbing trees. She spread the blouse on the board and smoothed the fabric with her hand, then picked up the iron.
“Annabelle,” said Warren. “Nothing’s going right.” His voice sounded so bleak that Annabelle lifted her head. “There’s stuff going wrong every time I turn around.”
“Warren,” said Annabelle. “You worry too much. You’ve always worried too much.”
“No,” he said miserably. “This is different.”
Annabelle unplugged the iron. She went to Warren and led him by the hand to the kitchen table. “Sit down. Tell me.”
“Wanda doesn’t want to have kids.”
Annabelle nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me. Not after having an abortion. I know I didn’t want to have them, after mine.”
“But then you did, Annabelle.”
“Yes. I changed my mind. Wanda will change her mind, too. I’m sure of it.”
“But it’s been ten years, Annabelle.”
“Only five since you got married, though.”
“She says when she’s thirty,” said Warren, after a pause.
“Well for goodness’ sake, Warren,” said Annabelle irritably. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’ve got to be upset about, then.”
“But she’s only twenty-seven.” Then he added, “Twenty-eight in September.”
Annabelle said, “That’s no time at all. And you’ll have plenty to keep you busy, too. Why, you’re going to have to fix up a room, and make a sandbox; heavens, you might even want to buy another house.”
“That could be,” said Warren after a moment. “I hadn’t considered that. The preparations.”
“Now,” she said briskly. “What else?”
Warren hesitated. “I saw you with Bobby Ransome today,” he said flatly. “That’s a big mistake, Annabelle.”
Annabelle started rummaging in the ironing basket. “I was with Erna today, Warren. We ran into Bobby. He just happened by.”
Warren was shaking his head sorrowfully. “Annabelle, quit it. There’s nobody knows you better than me.”
She slapped the ironing board. “Bobby Ransome’s an old friend of mine. I guess I can pass the time of day with an old friend if I want to.” Her face was hot with anger.
Warren held up his hands. “Listen, Annabelle, there’s no criticizing going on here. I’m afraid for you. That’s all.”
“Well don’t be,” Annabelle snapped.
Warren sat in silence, his head down.
Annabelle stared at the clothes waiting to be ironed. “You have seriously injured my good mood, Warren.”
“I saw him having a coffee with Wanda the other day, too,” Warren said miserably.
Annabelle’s heart did a little skip but she didn’t say anything, she didn’t even blink.
“I tell you,” he said heavily, “the man’s an infestation.”
Annabelle couldn’t help smiling. He looked so dejected, she got up and gave him a hug. “Warren,” she said, “if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that you don’t have to be jealous of Bobby.” She sat down opposite him. “Warren—Warren. Look at me.” She waited until he did so. “Wanda loves you, and she doesn’t love Bobby Ransome. Maybe she used to, when they were married. Or maybe she only lusted after him, like I did.” Warren looked quickly away. “But whatever. The only person she loves now is you.”
“Maybe,” said Warren reluctantly. “Maybe you’re right.”
Annabelle pushed her chair away from the table. “I’m definitely right,” she said, and plugged in the iron again.
Annabelle pressed her children’s clothes, dresses and shorts and T-shirts and jeans, and she chatted comfortably to her brother, and she permitted Bobby to move restlessly along the edges of her mind, seductive and dangerous.
Chapter 24
ALBERG CLOSED THE door to Steven’s room. He looked around for the heat vent, and closed that, too. Then he hurried to the window, undid the latch and pushed it open as far as it would go. He leaned out, taking great gulps of hot summer air, which by contrast felt cool and refreshing. He thought he might stop at the beach when he left here, and wade into the cold Pacific right up to his neck. And probably have a heart attack.
After a while he turned back to the room. It contained a single bed with a tartan coverlet, a bedside table and a bureau, and in the corner near the window, a desk and chair. On the table sat a lamp and an alarm clock. There was another lamp on the desk.
Alberg opened the drawer in the bedside table and gazed interestedly upon a plastic bag containing what looked like m
arijuana, an ashtray and a book of matches. He also noticed a roll of butterscotch LifeSavers.
He shut the drawer and went over to the bureau, which held underwear, socks, a pair of pajamas, two pairs of jeans, some gray sweatpants.
There was a closet with a beaded curtain instead of a door. Inside he found two dress shirts, a pair of slacks, a bathrobe, several short-sleeved T-shirts. On the floor were two pairs of sneakers, some slippers, and a pair of good leather shoes. Two sweaters, folded, sat on the closet shelf, along with a shoebox containing shoe polish and brushes. Also two suitcases, both empty.
A gym bag, a shaving case and a camera bag sat on top of the bureau. The gym bag contained several unopened boxes of color film, with a receipt from a local camera store; a checkbook; and a bankbook. The checkbook indicated a balance of $535.23. There was $2,500 in the savings account. In the shaving case were an electric razor, deodorant, a bottle of aftershave lotion, a pair of nail scissors, tweezers, a tube of hand cream, a small container of Tylenol and a nasal spray. The partitioned camera bag contained accessories, but no camera. Alberg compared the lens cap in his pocket to the one on the lens in the camera bag: they were the same.
A photograph was tucked into a corner of the mirror that hung above the bureau. It was a photograph of Steven Grayson and a young woman. They were leaning against the fender of a car—an old, dilapidated import, maybe a Toyota; it must have come from Central Canada, thought Alberg, to be so badly rusted. Steven had his arm around the girl, one foot braced against the car. She was leaning into his shoulder, laughing; a pretty girl, with short dark hair. The sun was shining but they were wearing jackets, and the trees in the background were bare.
Alberg turned from the photo and looked through the room more thoroughly, inspecting under the mattress, and poking behind drawers, and examining walls and floor, and searching the pockets of Steven Grayson’s clothing. Then he closed and locked the window, removed the photograph from the mirror, and picked up the gym bag.
Back in the living room, he said, “I’m going to have to take these things with me. We’ll return them to you when we’re done.”
Steven’s mother nodded.
“He had some film,” said Alberg. The heat was creating thunder behind his eyes. “But I didn’t see a camera.”
She looked confused. “He had one, all right. It was an expensive one, too.”
He showed her the photograph. “Do you know this girl?”
She turned the picture over. “ ‘Natalie,’ ” she read. She shook her head. “No. I don’t know her.” She looked at Alberg wearily. “I haven’t been much help, have I?”
Alberg took back the photograph. “Maybe Natalie can help us,” he said.
Chapter 25
IT WAS EARLY Monday morning. The men were crowded into Alberg’s office. There were only three of them but they were all big men—especially Sid Sokolowski—and it was another hot day, so it felt stiflingly cramped to Alberg. Someone had suggested that they meet in the interview room. But there was no window in there.
Sokolowski occupied the black leather chair. Carrington had dragged in a straight-backed chair from somewhere. And Alberg sat behind his desk. Each of them had a cold drink that was no longer cold.
“That Ferguson guy,” said Sokolowski, “he’s complained again. He says somebody’s poking around his damn zoo at night. Wanted to know what’s going on with the investigation. I told him the lab report’s come back and the only prints on the note were his own. He didn’t take kindly to this.”
“Put Sanducci on it, if anything more happens,” said Alberg.
“Right,” said Sokolowski.
“Okay,” said Alberg. “Buccaneer Bay.” He turned to Carrington. “You first.”
Charlie Carrington cleared his throat nervously. He was a thin, anxious young man who had arrived three months earlier from a posting in Saskatchewan. “Uh, I ran down the boat, Staff, like you said.”
Sokolowski shifted in the black leather chair, causing it to make a faint bleating sound.
“It’s a fifteen-foot runabout,” said Carrington, fingering his notebook, “belonging to one Keith Nugent, acquaintance of the deceased. We found it beached on the west side of the island, near the bottom of the path that goes up to the top. Nugent says the deceased asked him last Thursday if he could rent it from him for the day, on Saturday. Nugent agreed, and the deceased—”
“Constable,” said Alberg. “Don’t keep saying ‘the deceased.’ ”
“Okay, Staff. Sorry.”
“Go on.”
“Uh, yeah, right, so anyway, he, uh, stopped by where Nugent was working on Saturday morning and got the key. Nugent works at that Dairy Queen place over by Davis Bay—”
“It’s not a Dairy Queen, Charlie,” said Sokolowski.
“Okay. Well, that drive-in place.”
“It’s not a drive-in place, either,” said Sokolowski.
“Sid, for Christ’s sake,” said Alberg. “We know the place he means, right?”
“Right. But he’s got a notebook there. He’s making notes and they’re not accurate,” said the sergeant. “That notebook’s got to be right on the money, Charlie,” he said to the constable. “And if the staff sergeant here wasn’t so irritable with the heat he’d be the one telling you this.”
Alberg stared at the ceiling. Sweat crept down along his temples. “You’re right, Sid,” he said finally. “It’s a takeout place, Charlie. Called The Bluebird.”
“Okay, Staff,” said Carrington. “Thanks.” He made a correction in his notebook.
“Go on, Constable.” Alberg plucked a handful of tissues from the box on his desk, and wiped his face. Charlie Carrington’s arms looked exceedingly skinny, he thought, sticking out from the short sleeves of his uniform shirt.
“This was about noon, he says. When the guy picked up the key. He got to Pender Harbor about twelve-thirty. That’s where Nugent keeps his boat. Left his car, a Honda Civic, in the parking lot there. Got in the boat and took off.” He looked up. “That’s it, Staff.”
“Anything in the car?”
Carrington referred again to his notebook. “Just the usual stuff. Registration, maps, an empty fruit juice bottle.”
“Wastebasket?”
Carrington nodded. “I went through it. Gum wrappers, mostly. Kleenex. Nothing else.”
“Were Nugent and Grayson friends, or what?”
“It doesn’t look like it. The deceased—sorry, uh, Steven Grayson, he ran into Nugent in the bank on Thursday. Nugent said he hadn’t seen the guy for years. But they’d been to school together, and they got to talking, and Grayson asked if Nugent knew anybody who had a boat. Said he needed one for Saturday. So Nugent said he could use his.”
“Didn’t he ask what the guy wanted it for?” said Alberg.
“Yeah,” said Carrington. “Grayson said he just wanted to cruise around. Said he’d be going back to town soon and he wanted a day on the water.”
“And Nugent was at The Bluebird, at work, all day Saturday? You checked it out?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” Alberg sat up and turned to the sergeant. “What did you find out, Sid, talking to the locals?”
“We didn’t get anything,” said the sergeant. “Which didn’t surprise me, seeing as how we didn’t know what we were looking for.”
“It’s always harder,” said Alberg agreeably, “when we don’t know what we’re looking for.”
Sokolowski leaned forward, his beefy forearms on his thighs. “See, there’s always boats coming and going—and this is on both sides, I mean. The Buccaneer Bay side, and the other side. People beach their boats, or else they drop anchor, and then they wander all over the place, having picnics, hiking, not knowing they’re on private land. Or they don’t care. They come looking for blackberries. Whatever. So nobody’s gonna notice a kid hiking off into the woods, you know? At least, nobody did.”
“It’s worth going back, doing more interviews,” said Alberg. “Somebody
must have seen something.” He pulled his notebook toward him and flipped it open. “I talked to the bank manager. Grayson tried to make a twenty-three-thousand-dollar withdrawal last Thursday. The local guy told him he’d have to get it from his own branch, in Vancouver. His mother says he went to town that day; that’s probably what he was up to.”
“Okay,” said Sokolowski, “that establishes that if we’re talking about blackmail here, he wasn’t the blackmailer, he was the blackmailee.” He smiled. “Blackmailee,” he repeated.
“But it’s a very funny business,” said Alberg. “The blackmailer apparently sets up a meet—but on top of a cliff? And then what—does the kid get dizzy and fall off? Does the blackmailer shove him off? Without collecting the dough?”
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Sokolowski said, “We got nothing from the campers, too. And the boaters. Couple of people saw the fall. But that’s it.” He consulted his notebook. “There’s quite a few cabins. Houses, too. People living there year-round.” He looked at Alberg. “Some places nobody was home. Or maybe the wife was there but not the husband. You’re right. It’d be worth while, going back.”
Alberg nodded. “Good. Do it.” He took his feet off the desk and sat up. He finished his drink and tossed the can in the wastebasket. “Get me a list of the property owners, Charlie, will you? Both islands.”
“Right, Staff,” said the constable. He hesitated. “If somebody killed him—”
“Yeah? Go on,” said Alberg.
“Well, it surely wasn’t premeditated, right?”
“I’d say that’s right, yeah.”
“Because he wouldn’t have wanted him falling onto the beach, making a big commotion down there like he did.”
“He also wouldn’t have wanted him to take all that money down with him.”
“So is that better for us? Or worse?” said Carrington.
