by Marc Strange
“That’ll cost him one vote, anyway,” Orwell said.
“Doesn’t buy his suits here, didn’t get his teeth capped here. Doesn’t even live here.”
“I hear he’s shopping for a house,” Sam said with a grin. He did a dainty dance around a patch of mud and headed off to work.
“He should sublet first,” Georgie called after him.
Georgie and the Chief parted company at a fork in the path; Georgie off to feed cruller crumbs to the birds and squirrels, Orwell heading back to the station. Gregg Lyman’s visage confronted Orwell twice more before he reached Stella Street. He doubted the sincerity of the man’s smile. He reminded himself that the coming election had nothing to do with him. He maintained as conspicuous a remove from Dockerty politics as was possible for a man in the employ of Dockerty politicians. He kept his dealings with the mayor’s office businesslike and his relations with elected officials excessively polite. He refused to be drawn into conversations that might indicate which way he was leaning. In private, and to those close to him, he freely admitted that the Mayor was a thorn in his side, a stone in his shoe and an occasional gumboil, but publicly he was never less than loyal. And while he had often entertained thoughts of a world without Donna Lee’s annoying voice, the prospect of dealing with a new office holder, and one so obviously determined to climb the political ladder, gave him pause. He could do business with Donna Lee, he was accustomed to her, and their differences were clearly defined — she thought he was a sexist pig, and he knew she was a shrew.
Orwell was as convinced that he wasn’t a misogynist as no doubt Donna Lee was that she didn’t have a shrewish bone in her body. How could he be sexist? He lived and thrived in a house of women, his best investigator was a woman, he dealt with women every day — hell, half the storekeepers and waitresses in town smiled and fluttered when he walked in. He was a prince, he was certain of it: fair, respectful, non-patronizing. He had been confident enough of his gender-neutral behaviour to ask his youngest, Leda, Voice of the Oppressed, if she thought he was sexist.
“Well, Dad, you are a ma-an.” Leda dragged the word out like a schoolyard taunt.
“Can’t do anything about that,” he said reasonably. He’d been driving the seventeen-year-old home from the Dockerty Little Theatre. She had auditioned, convincingly she thought, for the part of Emily in Our Town. Drama was her forte, although she had a tendency to declaim. Orwell worried that she might have picked it up from him.
“It’s not your fault,” she said kindly. When he started laughing, she gave him a critical look. “But that laugh, the one you’re doing now, you don’t think it’s maybe a bit condescending?”
“How so?”
“Has a sort of ‘oh isn’t she just the cutest thing’ sound to it.”
“I was amused.”
“In a paternalistic way.”
“Right. Me. Father. Laughing.”
“Okay, so maybe I can deal with it on those terms, but how about women who aren’t related by blood or marriage? You give them that indulgent chuckle, too?”
“Oh heck, that’s just me. I don’t patronize — how could I and survive in our house?”
“You indulge us.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“I’ll let you know in a few years.”
Not the ringing endorsement he’d been fishing for perhaps, but she hadn’t exactly reproached him for being an indulgent father. She merely pointed out that he sometimes adopted an air of, oh well, call it condescension if you want to be critical. He preferred to see it as the warm and gracious outward manifestation of his need to protect and provide. There were moments of course, late at night usually, when he acknowledged that he could sometimes be a bit . . . what did Erika call it? Herrisch. One of those many-layered German words, the simplest definition of which was “manly,” but seemed to encompass “imperious,” “overbearing,” “pompous,” “domineering,” and a few dozen other concepts that, he had to admit, were clearly implied in his daughter’s pronunciation of the word “ma-an.”
Anya walked from the psychiatrist’s office to her studio. It was a dancer’s stride: exaggerated turnout, shoulders back, head high and floating, almost motionless. She changed directions arbitrarily, side streets and lanes, dodging traffic, checking reflections in the store windows, ever watchful, never the same route twice. She was wearing what she wore most days — sweater, tights, a black and grey wraparound skirt, a plain wool coat, flat shoes to nurse her perpetually sore toes. In Giselle she wore flowers in her hair. In Swan Lake she wore egret feathers and a tiara. She had no use for fashion.
She cut across the parking lot behind Sleep Country. Two men were loading a huge mattress into a truck. She wondered briefly if a bed like that might help her sleep, but she doubted it. Her problem couldn’t be mended by pocket springs and foam padding. She turned into the narrow walkway separating Laurette’s Bakery and Home Hardware — Vankleek Street at the far end — but a feathered black lump was lying on a grate, blocking the way.
Dead crow. Very bad omen in a world of bad omens. She sidestepped. For one thing, stay clear of dead birds. Some kind of virus was going around. What was it? West Nile, Avian something, Chinese chicken flu? If you paid attention to all the warnings you heard in one day you would go mad. Diseases, tornadoes, terrorists, escaped criminals — it is amazing any of us gets through a day. But a dead crow carried more than disease. It did not matter if it was killed by a mosquito or a train, it was in her path. On the roof above, other crows were looking down and making crow noises. Blaming me, she thought. Every dead crow is my fault. Go to hell. You get killed, it is your own stupidity, or bad luck, or bad planning, or bad friends. I am not responsible.
On the corner across from the Gusse Building, she lit a cigarette and lifted her eyes to the studio window on the third floor. No movement. No shadows. Three girls were waiting beside the florist shop on the other side, waiting for her to let them in. Just three. Two of them were hopeless, the third one was graceful but too tall. She should tell their parents, but she needed the money. She caught movement behind her.
“Salut, Mademoiselle.”
It was the Chinese girl, the one with promise, missed three classes with a sore foot. Get used to it. Anya smiled, the first smile of her day, happy to see her star pupil, the only one who might some day dance, barring the thousand hurdles and pitfalls. “Salut Christine,” she said. “How is your foot?”
“Much better, thank you.”
“I am happy to hear it.” The light turned green. Anya motioned to the crosswalk. “Continué. J’arriverai bientot.”
“Oui, Mademoiselle,” said Christine. She crossed the street to stand with the other three. They were waving at their teacher. Anya nodded graciously and then turned her back to look at the travel brochures in Dawson’s window and finish her cigarette. A ship was sailing the blue Caribbean, happy golden couples danced on a beach somewhere, silver planes promised smooth flying to paradise. She blew smoke at the glass and her reflection came into focus. A petite blonde woman with pale, watchful eyes, eyes that missed nothing, took in everything, eyes that immediately saw the dark car drive by and the tall man behind the wheel. That hair: unmistakable.
Georgie said he was preparing a list of what Orwell would need to make his case: plot map, maybe even a survey, photographs, estimate of house size — now how the hell would he know that? That was Patty’s decision. He didn’t know what kind of house she wanted. Maybe she didn’t want a house at all. Maybe he was just being Big Daddy again, throwing his not inconsiderable bulk around. Maybe he should mind his own business.
“Chief? Mayor Bricknell on line one.”
“Thank you, Dorrie, just what I need to brighten my day.” He knew what that was about. She was trying to wheedle him into an appearance at a conference on civic beautification. “Madam Mayor, I’m sure your presence will be more than enough to per
suade the good citizens to tidy up their front yards.”
“It’s much more than that, Chief Brennan, I want a concerted effort at fixing up some of our more distressed areas.”
“I support your vision for a prettier Dockerty and I assure you that the DPD will do what’s necessary to facilitate whatever course you and the good ladies of the . . . what is it again?”
“The Dockerty Restoration Society.”
“Yes, an admirable organization to be sure.”
“You’d only have to put in a brief appearance.”
“I know, just long enough for a photo-op.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Donna Lee, I truly wish you well in the upcoming election, I mean that, but you already have a picture with me looking supportive. I don’t like being co-opted as a tacit backer of your campaign. And I definitely don’t want to be trotted out like a prize bull every time you need your picture in the paper.”
After he hung up he wondered if he could have handled the exchange with more tact, but he tended to feel that way after most of his encounters with Mayor Bricknell. It was still a month until voting day. A long month.
“Chief?” Dorrie again. “There’s a Detective Delisle from Metro Homicide in town. He said he was checking in.”
“Well now, that might distract me for a moment from the usual travail.” He opened his door and checked the big room. “He here?”
“Just missed him, Chief,” Dorrie said. She was wearing a powder blue sweater set. “I didn’t want to interrupt your chat with the Mayor.”
“Most considerate.” Orwell noted, as he often did, how very tidy his secretary looked, not a hair out of place. “Have I seen that sweater before?” he asked.
“Probably. You gave it to me for Christmas.”
“Ah,” he said.
“Your wife may have helped you pick it out,” Dorrie said.
“Yes, as I recall I was going to get you a karaoke machine.” Dorrie didn’t laugh. It was one of Orwell’s missions in life to make her smile. She rarely did. “This detective . . .”
“Delisle,” she said. “Paul Delisle, Metro Homicide.” She articulated clearly. “Said he was hungry, be back after he had some lunch.”
Orwell checked his watch. “Hmm. I’m a mite hungry, too,” he said. “Know where he was planning to eat?”
“I told him to try the Hillside.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Can’t miss him, Chief: redhead, taller than you even, looks like a basketball player.”
“That colour suits you,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. “And may I say that green tie suits you.”
Orwell thought he detected the briefest flicker of a smile on his secretary’s face, but he could have been mistaken.
Paul Delisle had been a helluva basketball player. Good ball-handler for all his size, decent outside shot, not afraid to stick his face in there. Went all the way through college on his rebounding and his outlet pass. He still had a floating grace in the way he moved, his head was always up, expressive wrists, wide square shoulders. He was sitting by the corner window with an angle on the bridge to his right and a long view of Vankleek for three blocks west.
“Detective? I’m Orwell Brennan, understand you were looking for me. Don’t get up.”
“Chief. Pleasure. Paul Delisle.”
Delisle put down his hamburger, wiped his hand and extended it across the table. The two hands together were the size of a picnic ham.
“Mind if I sit down?”
“Oh yeah, please. You don’t mind me eating?”
“Hell, I’m here to eat, too,” Orwell said. “Doreen, sweetie, give me a small steak, tell Leo it’s for me — he knows how I like it.”
“Anything to drink, Chief?”
“Canada Dry, lots of ice. Thanks. Cut your hair. Looks nice.”
“Thanks,” Doreen said. She fluffed her new look as she headed for the kitchen.
“You know everybody in town, don’t you? I watched you walking this way.”
“Small town. I’m easy to spot.”
“Me too,” Delisle said, “but I’m more anonymous.”
“That’s the big city for you. So. How can I help you? You looking for somebody?”
“It’s sort of complicated.” He looked out the window at the Little Snipe flowing past. “There’s a ballet teacher in town. Calls herself Anna Daniel these days.”
“She a witness? Suspect?”
“Tell you the truth, I don’t know what the hell she is.” Delisle stared out at the river. “It’s probably a waste of time.”
“Something personal with you?” Orwell asked.
“Anna Daniel used to be with the Kirov or the Bolshoi or one of those, twenty-five, maybe thirty years ago,” Delisle began.
“Anya.”
“Say again?”
“Her name. Not Anna, An-ya. I’ve met her,” Orwell said. “My youngest daughter, Leda, took some classes before deciding she’d rather save the world than do pliés.” Orwell’s steak arrived, charred on the outside, red in the middle, salad on the side. He had foregone the excellent baked potato and sour cream he would have liked. He was trying to lose a few kilos. Again. “Where’s your partner?”
“I had some vacation time coming.”
“So this is personal.”
“What’d you think of Anya?”
“Can’t say we talked much. She was forthright. Said Leda was too tall, uncoordinated and had an attitude.”
“Does she?”
“My daughter? Definitely. The teacher, too. I like people with attitude. She defected, right?”
“1981, did a Baryshnikov in Toronto, asked for asylum.”
“She a citizen now?”
“Oh yeah, that’s all square. The Russians didn’t make much of a fuss. Not a big star.”
Orwell attacked his six ounces of rare beef and, for appearance’s sake, a few bites of salad. “What’s the interest?”
“She confessed to a homicide.”
Orwell blinked. “She did? When was this?”
“Six years ago. In the city. Before she moved up here. Somebody dead in High Park. She was questioned.”
“Why?”
“Routine. She lived close to where it happened. She was seen in the park, walking in the park, no big deal, she wasn’t a suspect, we were questioning people in the neighbourhood, just routine, and out of the blue she confesses.”
“To you?”
“It was a follow-up interview after the uniform cops had canvassed the neighbourhood. Uniform made a note that she’d acted a bit weird and might be worth a second visit. My partner and I knocked on her door, she comes to the door with a drink in her hand, sees the badges and says, ‘Ah, there you are at last.’ We give her the just routine ma’am, follow up visit, in case you may have remembered something, and out of the blue she says, ‘I know what you are talking about. I know the man you are talking about. I killed him.’”
“Holy cow.”
“Well, ah yeah, but it didn’t check out. Everything was wrong with her story. She said she shot him, the guy was strangled, big guy, strangled, she’s a small woman, no way she strangles somebody that size. The body had been moved, no way she moves a guy that size. She took a polygraph, she lies about everything. Nothing checks out. She didn’t have a gun. She had an alibi but she didn’t use it, the super in her building says she was moving furniture, tying up the service elevator, he saw her five, ten times that day. She’s a loon.”
“I know she’s seeing a psychiatrist,” Orwell said. “Dr. Ruth.” Delisle raised his eyebrows. “That’s her last name. Lorna Ruth. Anyway, Lorna’s in the medical building near the campus. Evangeline Street.”
“She won’t tell me anything, probably.”
<
br /> “No, she won’t. I just mention it. You saying she was a loon. You want coffee?” Delisle nodded, distracted. “Doreen, couple of coffees?”
“Got Dutch apple pie, Chief.”
“Temptress. But I am strong. Maybe next week. You want dessert?” Delisle shook his head, his thoughts still elsewhere. “Where’s your partner in all this?”
“What? Oh, Dylan? He’s retired. Six years ago. O’Grady. Black Irishman. Literally. Afro-Irish. Big guy, your size, used to play tackle for the Argos. Dylan O’Grady. Know him?”
“Vaguely. Don’t think he played very long.”
“Broken toe did him in. Believe that? Worked out in the end. Did his twenty as a cop, went into politics. He’s a city councillor now, but I hear he’s running for a vacant seat in Ottawa.”
“The big time.”
“Yeah, he’s a go-getter.” Delisle sounded dubious.
The coffees arrived as well as two bite-size portions of Dutch apple pie on saucers. “Just so’s you two know what you’re missing.” Doreen walked away, fluffing her hair again. Orwell savoured the single bite. “The guy in the park,” Orwell said, licking the corner of his mouth. “You ever find the real killer?”
“Oh sure we did, not for that one, but we found a strangler, a big gay dude, eight months later for another one, and for one more that the guy didn’t finish off and the victim lived to testify. Messed up his life, but he stood up, testified, give him that.”
“You should try the pie,” Orwell said. Delisle shook his head. Not interested. Orwell popped Delisle’s sample into his mouth. Be a shame to let it go to waste. “So you closed the first case, too,” he said, wiping his lips.
“Not officially, he wouldn’t cop to the guy in the park but we’re pretty sure it was him.”
“So if she didn’t do it, what’s the interest?”
“Well, we’ve got this other case, still open, two years previous, guy got himself shot, out in the Beaches. I was checking her out and her name pops up in this other file. She confessed to that one, too. Said she strangled him.”
