Fall from Grace

by L. R. Wright

  Annabelle moved toward the rosebushes in the center of her garden. She could leave, of course; just walk right out of here, through the bushes, and stomp up the dirt path and into her house, where she could slam the door on this impertinent girl. But Annabelle was curiously stimulated. She felt as if all the many flower-parts of her garden were leaning toward her and this girl, listening, straining to comprehend—as she was herself, surprisingly enough, even though it wasn’t really worth the time or trouble.

  “I don’t agree with you,” she said, and was pleased to hear that she sounded comfortable, reasonable, neither threatened nor threatening. “In the first place, Miss—” She turned and looked quizzically at the girl. “What’s your last name?”

  “Alberg.”

  Annabelle was for a moment frozen, suspended in that quizzical pose, looking back over her shoulder, her head tipped, waiting, courteously. “That’s right. Your father’s a policeman.” She couldn’t remember if adultery was actually against the law, or not. Laughter bubbled in her throat but all she did was smile. Then she turned and stepped again toward the roses. “There are rules about keeping animals, you know. Government regulations.”

  “I know.”

  “And there are people who go around making sure the rules are kept.” She peered intently at the new growth on the rosebushes, looking for aphids.

  “I know that,” said Diana. “I talked to the wildlife guy. He said I wouldn’t get anywhere with your husband.” Diana gave her a tentative smile.

  “And you won’t get anywhere with me, either,” said Annabelle sharply.

  She had heard the truck pull up next to the house.

  “If you talked to the wildlife people then you know that no rules are being broken here,” she said quickly, moving toward the brush that separated her garden from the house. “Some snoopy person complained about the mini-zoo, and they looked into it, because that’s their job.” She pulled back the branches. “Come on, come on,” she said impatiently, and the girl hurried up past her, and through the brush.

  “You shoulda told me you were coming back,” said Herman excitedly, slamming the truck door. “Did you bring a photographer this time?”

  “I’m not here for that,” said Diana stiffly. She started to walk out of the yard, but Herman put up an arm to stop her. “So—shit, you mean that article’s gonna be in the paper without a picture?”

  “I don’t know,” said Diana, with a swift glance at Annabelle.

  “There might not be any article, Herman,” said Annabelle.

  “What the hell are you talking about? What’s she talking about?” he said to Diana.

  “I—we don’t think there’s much of a story, really,” said Diana. “I’m sorry.” Once more she began moving toward the road, and her car.

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Herman desperately, spittle flying. “Goddammit.”

  Annabelle put a hand on his arm. “Herman—”

  He pulled away. “Listen,” he said to Diana. “Goddammit just stop and listen!” He reached out to take hold of her shoulder.

  “Herman!” said Annabelle, grabbing at him.

  Herman turned to her and, with a swipe of his left arm, knocked her to the ground.

  The screen door banged shut as Rose-Iris ran from the house to her mother.

  Herman looked from Annabelle to Diana, who stood stock-still, staring at him in horror. “Goddammit!” he cried. He rushed to his truck, backed frenziedly to the road, and drove away.

  Annabelle got to her feet, rebuffing Diana’s attempt to assist her. She smoothed her hair and pulled at the waistline of her dress, which had become twisted.

  “Go away now,” she said calmly to Diana, brushing dust from her dress. She peered closely at the skirt. “Oh look, Rose-Iris. There’s a tear in my dress.”

  Suddenly she whirled to face Diana. “Go! Go!” Annabelle shouted, tears flashing in her eyes, and Diana stumbled off to her car.

  Chapter 27

  ALBERG MET NATALIE Walenchuk where she worked: at a dog grooming establishment on Denman Street, in Vancouver’s West End.

  It was very hot in Bertha’s Doggy Salon. Natalie Walenchuk was wearing shorts and thongs and a white T-shirt. She was the only person in the place. It was almost closing time, she explained, and she was working on the last dog.

  Alberg pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead, looking curiously at the row of large kennels upon which sat several smaller ones. Two of the small ones were occupied by Yorkshire terriers, who had barked excitedly and with considerable purposefulness when Alberg first entered.

  On the grooming table stood a large, blond dog. “It’s a standard poodle,” said Natalie, when Alberg inquired.

  A harness was attached to the ceiling but Natalie wasn’t using it for the poodle. She held his muzzle in her left hand and with her right operated a razor, shaving the dog’s face, from the eyes down, and his throat. It was like she was shearing a sheep, Alberg thought, watching as the dog’s muzzle appeared to lengthen, and his eyes to grow larger.

  “Okay, fella,” said Natalie, giving the dog a slap on the flank. “On to phase two.” She pulled up a stool, picked up a pair of long-bladed scissors, and began trimming. Her back was to Alberg. The dog rested his chin on Natalie’s shoulder and gazed at Alberg with a calm intelligence the staff sergeant found disconcerting.

  “Come on through, if you like,” said Natalie.

  Alberg opened the gate next to the counter. He wandered around the table until he could see Natalie’s face, which was set and grim.

  “Brush off that chair and sit down.”

  Alberg looked at the chair. Like everything else in the place, it was covered with dog hair.

  “Here,” said Natalie, throwing him a towel.

  The dog turned his head to look curiously at Alberg, then sighed, and rested it again on Natalie’s shoulder, watching the pedestrians pass in front of the shop.

  “Were you and Steven—good friends?” said Alberg, wiping the seat of the chair.

  “Yes,” said Natalie curtly, the scissors snapping as she quickly, expertly, cut the woolly hair close on the dog’s back.

  Alberg peered into the canvas bag that was attached to the end of the table, then dropped the towel into it. “Lovers?” he asked, sitting down.

  Natalie glanced at him irritably. “Is that any of your business?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alberg. “Maybe not.”

  “Gotta move now, fella,” said Natalie to the dog, pushing her stool back from the table. She began brushing the long, curly hair on the dog’s left front leg, using an instrument that looked to Alberg like a short-handled rake. “No. We weren’t lovers. Steven was gay.”

  The dog yawned, slowly, hugely. Natalie looked up and caught Alberg’s eye. Her brown hair was short and thick and wavy. Her face shone with sweat. She had dark blue eyes and her teeth looked almost artificially straight and white. She started working on the dog’s right front leg.

  “Was there anybody special in his life? A sexual relationship, I mean.”

  “No,” said Natalie. “I don’t think there ever had been. I used to worry about him—one-night stands, you know. I kept hoping he’d meet somebody.” She stopped brushing and stared at the wall, where there were shelves full of merchandise—collars and leashes, food and water dishes, anti-flea shampoo. “He was my friend. I loved him.” She blinked rapidly, and swept tears away with her fingertips. The dog looked down at her; Alberg figured he knew that his front leg was done, and was wondering why Natalie wasn’t moving on. He moved his muzzle close to Natalie’s left temple and began sniffing, delicately. Natalie stood up. She turned her back to Alberg and looked out the front window, her hands in the pockets of her shorts.

  Alberg heard the fans—there were two of them—and the patient, rhythmic panting of the dog standing on the table. In their cages the Yorkies moved restlessly. They must be awfully hot, thought Alberg, waiting. But he saw that each cage contained a water dis
h.

  Natalie returned to her stool and began brushing one of the poodle’s back legs.

  “Did you know he hadn’t been back to Sechelt for ten years?” said Alberg.

  “Yeah. He didn’t think much of the place.”

  “How come he decided to go home this summer?”

  Natalie put down the brush and picked up the scissors. She cut the air a few times while she studied the dog. Then she began clipping the right front leg. “Well, see, he’d done something.” She lifted her head and rested her arm on the dog’s back. “He told me about it—oh, a few months after we met. He did this awful thing, he said. And he was waiting for a chance to put it right.” She shrugged and went back to the dog. “He never did tell me what he’d done. But it was something pretty serious. Or he thought it was, anyway. And then, last month he called me up, all excited, and said he was finally going to take care of it.”

  “How? What was he going to do?”

  Natalie looked up from her clipping. “What does it matter, for God’s sake—he’s dead, right? I just hope he had the satisfaction of getting things squared away before it happened.” She bent to the dog again.

  Alberg watched her for a while. Then, “Natalie,” he said. “It’s possible that his death wasn’t an accident.”

  Natalie looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “We don’t know anything for sure. But it’s possible.”

  She stared at him. “What are you saying? You think he—you think he jumped off that cliff? On purpose?”

  “No, that isn’t likely.”

  “You’re damn right it isn’t likely. So what, then?” She caught her breath. “You mean, somebody pushed him off?”

  “We’re investigating that possibility,” said Alberg.

  Looking dazed, Natalie put down the scissors and sat back. She folded her arms and hunched her shoulders slightly, hugging herself.

  “Did you hear from him,” said Alberg, “after he left for Sechelt?”

  Natalie nodded.

  “What did he tell you?”

  She was watching his face intently, hungry for information Alberg hoped she already possessed. “He said—” She shook her head.

  “Did he call you? Or write to you?”

  “He called.”

  “Often?”

  “Two or three times, maybe.” She shivered. “My God, my heart’s beating so fast I can’t believe it.” She stood, quickly, and embraced the dog, who looked somewhat surprised but gave the side of her face a dutiful lick.

  “Natalie,” said Alberg. “I really need you to help me on this.”

  “He was going to give somebody money,” she said, her hand pressed against her chest. “He phoned me on Thursday. He was in Vancouver. He had to come back to get the money.”

  “Was he being blackmailed?”

  She sat down on the stool. “No. I don’t think so. This guy, he didn’t know Steven was going to give him money. At first he wouldn’t even agree to see him.”

  “Do you know his name?” said Alberg.

  Natalie shook her head. The dog lifted a paw and nudged the air in her direction. “I told him to try again,” she said. “This guy told him to fuck off. Steven called me. ‘He won’t see me,’ he says, and he’s so upset, he’s nearly crying. ‘What am I going to do?’ he says. And I told him to call the guy again. ‘Try again,’ I said. ‘Try again.’ ” Her voice rose to a cry. “That’s who did it, isn’t it? That must have been who killed him.”

  Alberg looked around for a clean towel, found one, and handed it to her. The big blond dog nuzzled her hair as she wiped her face.

  “I have to ask you a couple more questions,” said Alberg.

  “Sure.”

  “I figure you must have tried to make him tell you what he was feeling so guilty about. Am I right?”

  “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

  “So what did he say? I know he didn’t tell you—but what did he say?”

  She considered this for a while, remembering. “The most he ever said was this. See, I was bugging him about it again… I thought it would be a good thing for him to talk about it, you know? I mean, it wasn’t just morbid curiosity on my part.”

  Alberg nodded.

  “So anyway, this one time I said, ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be all that bad,’ or something like that. And he got really upset, and he said, ‘What’s the worst thing you could imagine?’ And I laughed and said, ‘Well you didn’t kill someone, did you?’ And there was this awful pause and then he said, ‘Not directly.’ ”

  “What did you think he meant?”

  “I guess somebody died, and he felt responsible, even though he probably wasn’t.” She picked up the scissors and opened and closed them, studying them closely, as if she’d forgotten their purpose.

  “Did you talk about this again?”

  Natalie shook her head. “I didn’t really want to.” She looked up at Alberg. “I wish I had, though. I really wish I had.”

  Steven Grayson had lived in a small apartment in Kitsilano, two blocks from the beach. There was an elementary school across the street and more apartment buildings on either side. From the living room, sliding doors led onto a balcony barely big enough for one chair.

  Alberg stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. It was very quiet, and very hot. The sun poured into the room in streaks, between the slats in Levolor blinds that had been left partly open.

  He felt a personal responsibility for Steven Grayson’s death, because he’d almost witnessed it. Some son of a bitch had been stumbling down the backside of that goddamn cliff, fleeing a murder scene, while he, Alberg, sat on the sand babysitting the corpse.

  Steven had been an orderly person, he thought, looking around. The coffee table held a dozen magazines, stacked neatly by category: news magazines, photography magazines, travel magazines. The paperback books filling the shelves against one wall were all fiction, arranged alphabetically, by author. Steven had had a high-quality sound system, and the compact discs, too, were organized—jazz in one box, rock in another, some classical music in a third. The sound-system components were the only things in the room that would have cost him serious money.

  On the walls of Steven’s apartment hung framed photographs which Alberg assumed Grayson had taken himself. Some of them Alberg liked a lot. Pewter driftwood, on a beach drenched by a silver tide. A full white moon in a navy sky, peeking over a snowy hillside. A sheet of still water bordered by leafless trees; Alberg craned his neck to look at it upside down; the reflection was only marginally less defined than the trees themselves.

  He went into the kitchen and opened cupboards and drawers, but didn’t find anything interesting. The fridge had been cleaned out but not turned off.

  The apartment had two bedrooms, the smaller of which Steven Grayson had used as an office. Here Alberg found cameras and equipment in a closet, and a filing cabinet next to a small desk. A glass-fronted bookcase held hardcover photography books. On the desk were containers of pens, pencils, paper clips; an in-and-out tray; a telephone with a Rolodex beside it; and drawers containing supplies.

  Alberg put on his reading glasses, opened the top drawer of Steven Grayson’s filing cabinet, and began to examine the contents.

  The sunlight gradually withdrew, and Alberg, squinting, turned on the overhead light, and the desk lamp.

  He went through everything in the filing cabinet, and everything in the desk. He became aware of hunger, but ignored it.

  He heard himself humming, slowly, under his breath. He did this a lot; he assumed it helped him concentrate. But he wished it weren’t the theme from The Mickey Mouse Club that he hummed.

  Eventually, he was finished. He sat back in Steven’s desk chair, took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was tired, but he was also engrossed. Intent upon the puzzle that was Steven Grayson; because in the understanding of his life lay the solution of his death.

  Chapter 28

  ALBERG WAS AT his desk early t
he next morning. He made several calls, then went down the hall to see Sid Sokolowski, who was talking on the phone at his desk in the main office, behind Isabella’s counter.

  Sokolowski hung up as Alberg poured himself some coffee. “I was talking to the guy about getting your list,” said the sergeant. “Of the property owners on the Thormanbys.”

  “And?”

  “He says we’ll have it by noon, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Why not?” said Alberg, stirring sugar and cream into his coffee; Isabella hadn’t yet arrived, so he was free to do this openly.

  “His name’s O’Hara,” Sokolowski said meaningfully.

  “So?”

  “When a guy’s Irish,” Sokolowski pronounced, “you know you can’t rely on him.” Sokolowski believed that certain character traits, both positive and negative, were part of a nation’s DNA. He would not have agreed that this made him a bigot.

  “If you go down there at noon and scowl at him, Sid, I bet you’ll get some action.”

  “Maybe,” said the sergeant grudgingly. “What did you learn in Vancouver?”

  Alberg sat on the edge of Sokolowski’s table, which was positioned right up against his desk. The sergeant used his table as a place to sort things; there were many piles of paper on it. “His friend Natalie says he was going to give the money to somebody. It was supposed to be—a reparation, I guess.”

  The sergeant looked skeptical. “What did he do?”

  Alberg shrugged. “I don’t know. But I’d like to find out. Meanwhile, check this out, will you, Sid?” He gave Sokolowski a warranty registration form. “It was in his office. But the camera itself is gone. I think he had it with him when he was killed. When we get the description we can contact pawnshops, secondhand stores—”

  “Et cetera, et cetera. Will do.”