Mother Love

by L. R. Wright

  Sid leaned toward him and spoke in a loud whisper. “Is she—okay? You know. After that—the ordeal she had. I mean—you know. Romantically.”

  Alberg looked at him, expressionless.

  “Oh shit.” The sergeant sat back, miserable. “I spoke out of turn.” He put his hands on his knees and was still studying them intently when Cassandra came in with three mugs of coffee on a tray.

  “You’d better drink it black, Sid,” she said.

  “I better.” He drank some and held the mug in his huge hands. “Congratulations on your engagement,” he said uncomfortably to Cassandra.

  “Thank you, Sid.”

  “You gonna have a church do, or what?”

  “Oh no,” said Alberg quickly. “I don’t know. Something informal.”

  “But there’s gonna be a reception, right?”

  Alberg shifted position uncomfortably, glancing over at Cassandra. “I don’t know, Sid. We haven’t decided anything yet.”

  “There’ll be something,” said Cassandra. “Maybe a reception. Maybe just a party. But something.” She smiled at him. “Do you think you could persuade Elsie to come?”

  Sid’s face flushed. “I could try.”

  ***

  Alberg was awake long into the night. He was thinking again about Maria Buscombe’s photo album. He saw her pleading figure by the roadside, as Belinda had seen it. He remembered Edward Dixon and the map he said he had drawn for Maria.

  In the morning, he called Maria’s daughter.

  “Belinda,” he said when she answered. “Did your mother ever hit you?”

  There was a long silence. “Sometimes.”

  Alberg leaned against his kitchen wall and listened to the shower running in the bathroom. He was grateful for his mother, in London. He was grateful for his absent daughters. “She was different, wasn’t she,” he said, “when she got back from Saskatchewan.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? I always figured she found out more than she wanted to tell us.”

  Chapter 43

  HAMILTON GLEITMAN capped his fountain pen and laid it next to his notebook. He sat straight on his desk chair, groaning, and massaged the small of his back with both hands. He was temporarily spent. But—Christ! He felt good. He got up and went to his window and looked out at the view, stretching, loosening up his body, exultant about the work he’d done in the last ten days.

  The killing had provided him with an enormous amount of material, emotional data by the bucketful. He had been euphoric ever since. The poet in him had been dominant since that night, the poet’s needs central: he had put off or canceled every magazine assignment he had, in order to write himself out.

  Hamilton went to the kitchen and took sliced ham, a tomato, mayonnaise and mustard from the fridge and a loaf of stale bread from the cupboard. He put on a Frank Sinatra CD and began to fix himself a sandwich.

  First to be mined was the way he’d felt before the killing: cocky, excited; in his eagerness for this new adventure there had been something sexual. Then there was the deed itself: the stealthiness with which he’d made his way into the apartment; the thrill of creeping to her bedside, hammer in hand; the shock of having her waken; and the multitude of sensations that had accompanied the act of striking her...she had fought him. Fought him. He hadn’t expected that.

  Hamilton put the sandwich on a plate and took it and a can of beer into the living room. He sprawled on the sofa and ate contentedly, looking at the view, listening to Sinatra.

  He had gotten out of there by the skin of his teeth, with blood all over his clothes, and spattered on his face, and in his hair. He had tucked the hammer inside his jacket and loped half a mile to the ocean, feeling invulnerable. He waded into the ocean, oblivious of the cold, and splashed around until he’d gotten rid of the blood. Then he heaved the hammer into the black reaches of the Pacific and waded out and jogged back to his car. By the time he got there his teeth were chattering and his balls had shrunk to the size of walnuts. He started driving, and as soon as the motor had warmed up, turned on the heater.

  He had planned to at least check out the daughter, too, and if things had fallen together as they often did for Hamilton, he’d thought he might even get rid of them both on the same night. But no damn way, he’d told himself in the car, shivering, teeth clattering around as if he had a mouthful of marbles. He’d heard somebody out in the hall just as he was slipping out the glass doors. So the body had probably already been found, and he had to get out of there.

  He had slapped the steering wheel, grinning to himself. Jesus, but he’d felt good. The poems were going to gush from him now, black billowings of blood and terror, the truth of them deftly concealed.

  And they did.

  He took his plate and the empty beer can back to the kitchen and returned to his desk to leaf backward through his notebook, its pages covered with black-ink scrawls. At his next work session he would copy the revised poems cleanly into a new notebook and shelve it until he had filled enough of them to send off to his publisher.

  He got another beer and returned to the sofa to rest his aching back some more. He had used up the murder of Maria. It was time to turn his mind to her daughter.

  It was also time, he decided, to bring Harry back into this thing.

  ***

  Alberg was sweating over more paperwork when Nettie Pringle called from Surrey. “Yeah,” she told him, “your boy Harry Stewart was here on October second. Spent the weekend, in fact.”

  “Shit. Doing what?”

  “Bowling.”

  “Bowling? He said he had some kind of a business deal going.”

  “That’s a laughable concept, according to these guys. But he was here, no question.”

  “Shit. Okay. Thanks, Nettie.” He was scowling at the surface of his desk when Sokolowski appeared in the doorway.

  “Knock knock.”

  “Come in, Sid.”

  “I’m here to apologize,” said the sergeant lugubriously.

  “Forget about it.”

  “No, it’s only right—”

  “Okay. Fine. Apology accepted.”

  Sokolowski studied him. “You’re a tad snappish today, Staff.”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” Alberg slumped back on his chair. “Harry Stewart’s in the clear, and I don’t have a blind-eyed clue what to do next.”

  Sid sat down opposite him.

  “Nobody else had any reason to get rid of her,” Alberg went on. “Neither did Harry, for that matter, but he didn’t know it. I know what you think, Sid—but if it was a break-in, why wasn’t anything taken?”

  “The neighbor lady heard the guy,” said the sergeant. “He probably knew somebody’d heard him, and figured he had to split to save his hide.”

  Alberg was staring at the ivy, which had wended its way halfway down the side of the filing cabinet. “On the other hand,” he said thoughtfully. Why hadn’t he thought of this before?

  “On the other hand what?” said the sergeant.

  Alberg turned to him. “Our Harry is lazy, Sid. Too lazy to work. Too lazy to dress himself in clean clothes, even.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe he hired himself a hit man.”

  Sokolowski considered this. “It’s possible, I guess.”

  Alberg smiled. “I think it’s time I talked to him again.”

  Chapter 44

  AMONG HARRY’S reactions to news of Maria Buscombe’s death was, of course, relief: his father had become noticeably absentminded over the past few years, but there was a limit to how many sculptures and rugs and paintings Harry could lift without being found out, and Harry figured he’d about reached it.

  Mostly, though, her death created terror in him. He badly needed to talk to somebody, somebody who was familiar with the situation. But if he was right, and it was Hamilton who’d killed her, Harry didn’t want to have anything to do with him. That left only Everett. Harry hadn’t s
een him in some time, because Everett was very busy for several months of every year, now that his circumstances had changed so dramatically.

  Six years earlier Everett had gotten hired to do a commercial for an oil company. He’d played a rumpled character who was warm-hearted and in-your-face friendly, a little bit of an “aw shucks” kind of guy. In the middle of his spiel music started happening, and Everett’s character broke into a soft-shoe routine, hands in his pockets, talking on about gasoline as if he wasn’t even hearing the music and certainly wasn’t aware that he was dancing.

  The commercial turned out to be a big hit. So the oil company had the advertising agency do another one with the same character, and then another one, and soon little stories were appearing in the entertainment sections of the newspapers about Everett. One thing led to another, one job led to another, until Everett ended up getting a lead role in a TV series shot in Vancouver, about a muddle-headed private investigator and his sharp-tongued sister who kept house for him. And this had changed Everett’s life completely, of course.

  But the crisis of Maria Buscombe’s murder occurred while the series (which had been renewed for yet another season) was on hiatus, so Harry drove up to his house, pretty sure he’d find him at home.

  Everett, so as not to put his newly fecund career at risk, had joined Gamblers Anonymous but since he still felt the urge on a regular basis, he kept himself very busy in the off season. When Harry trudged up to his front step, carrying his briefcase, he saw Everett spraying and vigorously polishing the glass that made up the top part of the door. Harry picked up the doorknocker, a miniature of the Eiffel Tower, and banged it down, startling Everett, who’d been so intent on the smudges on the glass that he hadn’t noticed Harry out there. He opened the door and let him in.

  “I gotta talk to you,” said Harry unceremoniously.

  Everett led him into the living room and got them both a beer from the wet bar in the corner. Everett’s house, which he had bought when the series got renewed the first time, and in which he took great pride, was high above Burrard Inlet and offered a magnificent view of the water and the North Shore mountains. But Harry wasn’t interested in the view.

  “Have you seen Hamilton lately?” he said.

  Everett shook his head and drank some beer. He had set the bottle of glass cleaner and the roll of paper towels on the bar. “What’s with the briefcase?”

  Harry looked down at it, sitting next to his feet. He loved that briefcase. He’d bought it three years earlier, on sale. Carrying it gave him confidence, gave a lilt to his walk and a lift to his chin. It contained every piece of paper in his life, including the notebook in which he’d documented his father’s art collection. Plus he carried the current TV Guide in it, too. “I keep my important papers in it,” he said. “When did you see him last?”

  Everett thought about it. “He had a book launch. I think that was—yeah, four years ago. I’d just left the store, is how I remember. Why? What is this?”

  “You remember that broad, my old man’s love child?”

  “I never met her,” Everett reminded him.

  “I know, but you remember, she—she went away? We paid her—I paid her off, and she went away? Remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember. What about it?” Everett’s eyes wandered to the glass cleaner and the paper towels.

  “She’s dead.”

  Everett lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “So? Your worries are over, then, right?”

  “No, see...” Harry wriggled to the edge of the sofa he was sitting on and said, in a harsh whisper, “She’s been killed. Murdered.”

  Everett looked at him piercingly, then shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “I’m afraid it was Hamilton,” said Harry miserably.

  “Come on,” scoffed Everett—but almost immediately he looked apprehensive. “But why would he?”

  “See—I found this out from the cops—I got grilled, Everett, by the goddamn cops, over this thing—”

  “Jesus,” said Everett, appropriately sympathetic.

  “—I found out that her husband and their kid live in Sechelt now, and that’s where she was killed, in Sechelt, in this apartment, Everett, that she’d rented there.” He sat back and took a long swig of beer. “It was Hamilton’s job to make sure she stayed in Abbotsford. He got paid to do this, that was the arrangement. I came up with the dough, for him and for her—on and fucking on, year after fucking year, for her. And Hamilton, he found the place where she was gonna live, and he was supposed to make sure she stayed there. That was our agreement.”

  “How was he supposed to do that?’ Everett wanted to know.

  “His old lady owns the house she was in. She was gonna keep him posted.”

  “So you figure his mom told him she’d left, and—”

  “Yeah,” said Harry grimly. “I phoned him up, nine, ten times since the cop talked to me, but all I get is his machine. ‘Go away, I’m in seclusion,’ that’s the message on the thing. Shit.” He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his worn navy sweatshirt and in doing so got a whiff of body odor that took him aback. “Now, Everett,” he said, “my question to you is, I’m not to blame for any of this, am I?”

  “You mean, legally?”

  “Yeah, legally.”

  “I’m no expert—”

  “Yeah, but you’re this TV detective now,” Harry broke in. “Some useful stuff musta rubbed off, right?”

  “Well,” said Everett.

  “Plus you did all that reading,” Harry went on, “when you managed the store. You’ve read more books than anybody I know, including my old man. Some of them musta been legal books. Or detective books. True crime. Whatever.”

  “Yeah,” said Everett, nodding, thinking. “I guess.”

  Harry thought hopefully that his friend might be conjuring up pages, or even whole chapters, in his brain. He must have an exceptional-type memory, Everett, in order to learn all those lines every week.

  “Okay,” said Everett. “So if he did it—” He stopped and looked hard at Harry. “You sure you didn’t know about some of this? You sure Hamilton didn’t tell you she’d left this one place and rented this other one over on the coast?”

  Harry was shaking his head so vigorously that he felt his jowls quivering. Jowls. Jesus. He was getting fucking old, and still he didn’t have his fucking money. “No way,” he said fervently. “No way.”

  “Why the hell would he do it, though?” Everett said thoughtfully, gazing through the window, but Harry didn’t think he even registered what was out there. He looked back at Harry. “You’d already paid him his money, right?”

  Harry nodded.

  “So I don’t get it. Why didn’t he just let her go? Tell you to fuck off? He’s a tough character, Hamilton. He wouldn’t find that hard. I don’t get it.”

  Harry was silent under Everett’s scrutiny.

  “What else is going on here, Harry?”

  Harry, who had been expecting this, spoke with the greatest reluctance. “I promised him part of my inheritance.”

  Everett’s eyes became huge. “What, if he killed her?”

  Harry almost laughed at the squawk in his voice. “No no no,” he said nervously. “No. If she stayed away for ten years. Or until the old man crapped out.”

  “You mean,” said Everett, “if he made sure she stayed away.”

  There was a silence. “Yeah,” Harry mumbled.

  “Did you by any chance put this in writing?”

  Harry looked down at the floor. He tried to recall when he’d last had a shower. He was sweating, and the smell of his body was stronger. He wondered if Everett was aware of it, too. He looked over at Everett, sitting on his big black leather chair, one ankle crossed over the other knee. He looked crisp and stylish, as usual. There was a worried expression on his face, but Harry didn’t think that was because he was smelling anything bad. Probably the good leather smell from the chair blocked out everything else.

  “Sort of,” Har
ry said finally. “Not really. It’s a kind of an IOU-type thing I signed.”

  Everett looked at him sadly. “You’re in shit, Harry. I just don’t know if it’s up to your knees, or your waist, or if you’re about to drown in it.”

  ***

  An hour later Harry was sitting at his usual table in Flora’s Place, his briefcase on the floor between his feet, going over his conversation with Everett in his head. He was sipping iced tea and keeping his eye on the door in case that damn cop showed up again. There was no reason to think he would: Harry just happened to have an ironclad alibi; the cop would check it out, and that would be that.

  He had said he’d be back, though. Harry thought that was probably just for show, but you could never tell anything for sure with cops—they were a surly, sneaky crew in Harry’s opinion—so he kept a wary eye on the door. He had resolved to be as officious as hell with the cop if the guy bothered him again. For one thing, he’d say, What the hell are you doing, questioning people outside of your jurisdiction? He had some other remarks prepared, too. He was all ready for the damn cop, yes sir.

  So when the door opened and instead of the cop standing there it was Hamilton Gleitman, Harry felt lost, like a character in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Hamilton stood there grinning, and Harry sat there staring at him, and his brain was trying to persuade him that he did not know this guy.

  “Hi, Harry,” said Hamilton, sliding onto the chair opposite him. Harry was gray-faced and starting to sweat. “What are you drinking?”

  “Iced tea. Chicken’s on the way. Hi, Hamilton. Long time no see.”

  Hamilton sat back and poured a small pile of salt onto the table. “Is it supposed to be good, then? The chicken?” He licked his finger, stuck it in the salt and then into his mouth.

  “It’s one of their specialties,” said Harry. “Yeah, it’s good.”

  “How’s your old man?” said Hamilton. He lifted his hand and got the waitress’s attention.

  “Failing,” Harry said quickly. “Definitely failing.”

  Hamilton gave him a skeptical glance and told the waitress to bring him what Harry was having. He ate more salt. “I see from your face,” he said to Harry, “that you heard the news from Sechelt.”