by Marc Strange
“What happened?”
“I told you. I flew. There was a tree, a beautiful maple tree, like this one, tall and smooth, with big strong arms. When they pushed me over, I had enough time to bend my legs and propel myself away from the railing. I flew into the top of the tree like a bird, and it caught me. By the time they got down the elevator I was far away. I had cracked ribs, I was black and blue, cut and scratched, my wrist was broken, three of my fingers were hyper-extended and I tore a ligament in my elbow. But I was alive, and strong enough to climb down from my wonderful tree and run away.”
“And you ran up here.”
“Eventually.” She started to walk again, across the wet grass, heading in the direction of the Gusse Building.
“Doesn’t sound like much of a life — running, hiding, waiting for the axe to fall.”
“I will tell you something, Mr. Policeman, I have never had a ‘life.’ When you are a dancer, your life is classes, rehearsals, performing, stretching, recuperating, not enough to eat, not enough sleep, and everything else, everything, has to fit in between. If there is a little time left over you can fall in love for a few minutes.” She laughed. “I was getting to like this town,” she said.
“You planning on running again?”
“I do not know,” she said. “I am tired of being chased.”
“I’ll have my officers keep an eye on you,” he said.
“Every minute?”
“This isn’t a big town,” Orwell said. “If the person who broke into your apartment isn’t from around here, we might be able to spot him.”
“To me, everybody looks like an assassin. Except you. Maybe.”
“No, I’m just a poor sinner,” said Orwell, popping a breath mint into his mouth.
They had reached the Gusse Building. She unlocked the front door.
“I will spend tonight in my studio,” she said. “I have done it before. There is a couch, a blanket.”
“I’ll come up with you,” he said. “Make sure it’s safe.”
“Your wife is a lucky woman.”
“Perhaps. But she’ll have questions about tonight.”
“It is good for her.”
“It is?” He followed her up the stairs.
“That you surprise her from time to time.”
“She hates surprises.”
“I know. It will remind her that you cannot prepare for everything.”
The sign on her door read “Daniel Dance Academy.” Orwell took the key from her, unlocked the door, reached inside and flicked a light switch. Fluorescent fixtures pulsed to life illuminating the long room, the wall of mirrors, the tall windows overlooking Vankleek.
“I will be okay now,” she said. “You are a good listener.”
“You tell a good story.”
Orwell followed her to a corner where there was a couch and chairs and a cabinet with a kettle. On the wall were a few photographs, signed with illegible scrawls: Anya with famous partners, Anya with a famous conductor, a choreographer, Anya alone, in the costume of a black swan. Among the photographs, hanging from a nail by their fraying pink ribbons, was a pair of toe shoes, tattered, broken, scuffed, discoloured. “They take a beating, shoes like this,” she said. “They do not last long.” She smiled. “Like dancers.”
“This is a special pair?”
“Giselle,” she said. “For the Mariinsky. My triumph. The prima ballerina got sick and I was elevated. They are signed, you see? Soloviev. A name you would not know, but . . .” She held the shoes to her breast for an instant. “I was wonderful,” she said.
“I wish I could have seen it,” Orwell said.
She hung the shoes carefully on the nail, touched the signature on the toe. “He killed himself, you know, Soloviev. He was maybe the best of them all and he killed himself.” She turned on a reading lamp, threw her coat across the piano bench, then opened the fire escape window to admit a large orange tomcat. The cat looked at Orwell for a long moment before coming all the way in.
“What’s his name?” Orwell asked.
“Who knows? He will not tell me.” She followed the cat to the couch and they both sat, side by side. “I am tired now,” she said. “Finally. It was a long day.”
“Yes it was,” said Orwell.
“Turn out the overheads when you leave, okay? And make sure the door locks behind you. You have to turn the thing.” She slumped to the couch. Looked at her hands. Orwell went to the door and turned off the fluorescent lights. She looked small in the far corner of the room, sitting in a pool of lamplight, staring at her hands. Small, and much older. Orwell closed the door behind him, made sure the lock had caught. He did the same at the bottom of the stairs and stepped onto the sidewalk.
Stacy and Constable Maitland were waiting.
“Hi, Charles.”
“Morning, Chief.”
“Morning. Yes. She’ll be staying in her studio, top floor, on the right. There’s probably a fire door or a rear entrance around back. Make sure it’s secure.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And there’s a fire escape.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You don’t have to spend the night watching her, but make yourself conspicuous, you know, park out front for a while every hour or so, take a walk down the lane. If anyone’s watching, I want them to know we’re paying attention.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good lad,” he said.
“Take you back to your car, Chief?” asked Stacy.
“Nope. You’re still designated. Drive me home and I’ll tell you all about the biggest ruby in the world.” He got in the back seat.
Five
Friday, March 18
Whatever the household mood, dogs are instantly cheered when boots are pulled on and a walking stick is yanked from the umbrella stand. Perhaps even more than usual on a morning when people aren’t speaking and breakfast scraps haven’t materialized. As it was a fine morning (and who can say that dogs don’t know the difference), the romp ahead promised to be an extended one. Orwell just wanted to get away from the kitchen, where all was icy silence.
He had much to answer for, that was certain: chauffeured home well past his promised arrival time reeking of tobacco smoke and Polish vodka — “You smell like a kangaroo!” When innocently inquiring how his wife might know what a kangaroo smelled like, he’d been told to keep to his side of the bed. He had also failed to collect his daughter from rehearsal as pledged, and been compelled to pony up the twenty-three-dollar cab fare his wife had to borrow from the house funds. His quite reasonable explanation that police business forced him to alter his plans had produced a snarl, suggesting beyond doubt that any “police business” involving strong drink and cigarettes was a fabrication not worth hearing.
The rain had moved off to the north and east, leaving behind a fine fresh morning, and Orwell was determined to stretch his legs, clear his head, fill his lungs with oxygen and rid himself of an incipient headache and stuffed sinuses. He set out at a good clip, leaving Borgia far behind and almost keeping pace with the little white dog.
After marching across two rising fields over soft terrain, Orwell was surprised to find he was puffing. He leaned against a cedar post at one end of an ancient snake fence and took a few deep breaths. Maybe it was time to drop a few pounds. More dog walks would help. Duff was running circles again, trying to sniff every square inch of the property. Borgia was marching past them both, taking charge, boss-of-the-walk. Orwell straightened, flexed his left knee a few times, gave the fence post a neighbourly rap with his stick and set out again at a slower pace, enjoying the air, ruminating on his many sins.
Upon reflection, he had to acknowledge that as an investigator, he made a fine drinking companion. He could think of at least ten questions he could have asked, should have asked, and at least three he had asked that were
never answered. Obviously there would have to be a follow-up visit, and there he encountered a small but knotty series of professional complications that had to be considered. Metro Homicide, possibly Peel Division, perhaps even Montreal, would be showing up before long, and a murder investigation easily trumped a break and enter. While the Dockerty police had every right, not to mention responsibility, to investigate two burglaries and the mugging of a citizen, there was no dismissing the connection between the murders of Viktor Nimchuk, some woman in Montreal whose name he couldn’t quite remember, and Paul Delisle’s ill-fated visit to town. Not to mention the possibility that there was a famous Russian trinket on the loose, as well as a police officer’s missing weapon of the same calibre that killed the aforementioned small-time smuggler, Viktor Nimchuk. No getting away from it, the burglaries and the mugging were probably part of something much larger and more serious, and as such might be more effectively looked into by detectives from the city. He should, and would, simply pass on what he knew to Metro Homicide, stand back and let them do what they were going to do anyway. He had important police chief duties to carry out that did not include late night smoking, drinking, schmoozing parties with a burglary victim who might well be an international jewel thief and/or murder suspect.
That he felt a tutelary concern for Anya Daniel’s welfare was natural, given his paternalistic view of his place in the community, but his automatic response to attractive women was a solid reason for him to distance himself from further involvement. Orwell was not a philanderer, nor did he entertain reckless notions, but he did like the company of interesting women, and he had enjoyed his time with Ms. Zubrovskaya. Far too much, he cautioned himself, to make him an effective investigator. It wasn’t his place, it wasn’t his job, he wasn’t very good at it and it was a bad idea. Definitely. An intriguing mystery to be sure. Too bad he was such an inept sleuth.
His best detective, on the other hand, deserved a chance to dig a little deeper before being shoved aside by the duly authorized heavy hitters. He didn’t think it was absolutely necessary to start making phone calls before Monday morning — give her another seventy-two hours or so to poke around, see what she could stir up.
He stopped at the crest of a hill and surveyed the fields and woods, surprised that he’d come so far. A faint haze of green hovered over the land, new growth, barely showing. A cardinal at the top of a bare elm tree announced to the world that he was open for business and that this end of the hedgerow was now officially his. Orwell’s lungs felt much better, his headache was receding. It was even a little warm for his leather coat. He pulled back his shoulders, lifted his face to the sun, sucked in a lungful of sweet country air. Time to head back, make some phone calls, do his job and avoid the women of his house for a while.
Not a chance. But in a good way: a gorgeous creature, smartly turned out in clean green Wellingtons and a jacket of suede and fine tailoring was emerging from the shadows of the hedgerow, sunlight caught in her soft brown hair. She was heading up the slope to meet him. Diana had arrived. Erika’s daughter, his stepdaughter, although he never thought of her as such, up from the city for one of her increasingly rare weekend visits. He stopped to enjoy the sight of her. “Now there’s lovely,” he called out.
“Hiya, Dad,” she sang back.
“This is a lovely surprise. Wasn’t expecting you this weekend.”
“You were really booting it. I couldn’t catch up.”
They hugged. Duff ran around madly demanding a proper greeting. Borgia bumped Diana with her shoulder as she started the return trip ahead of them.
Diana hung onto his arm, matching his pace with exaggerated strides, swinging her free arm to let the breeze pass between her waggling fingers. Used to bop along exactly the same way when she was nine, he thought, going for a hike with Dad, always smartly dressed, even as a kid, great style sense. “I hear you stepped in it big time, Dad,” she said.
“Oh ho!” he said proudly. “I managed to step in it at least four, possibly five times last night. I was carousing, forgetting my responsibilities, poking my nose into areas far outside my purview.”
“Oh? What I heard was that you ruined Patty’s life.”
“Oh yes, forgot that part momentarily. And I also ruined my daughter’s life, trying to ‘bestow,’ Erika called it.”
“I think it’s a great idea. Is Georgie going to handle the severance for you?”
“If it gets that far. It’s a dog’s breakfast of county by-laws and regulations. He’s walking me through it.”
“I’m seeing him this afternoon.”
“Really?”
“The Harold Ruth case. He wants my advice, maybe my help.”
That stopped Orwell in his tracks for a moment. “Well now,” he said, for want of anything better to contribute. “That’s interesting.”
Diana smiled at her father’s momentary consternation. “He’s itching for battle,” she said.
“I’ll bet he is. You going to do it?”
“I don’t know if my firm will let me, but I wouldn’t mind a chance.”
“It’ll be a tough one. The man killed a cop.”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly.”
She squared up to face him. “But you wouldn’t mind? If I got involved. Tell me.”
“My goodness, how could I mind? Meat and drink to you lawyers, isn’t it?”
“Ooh yeah.”
He took her hand, started walking again. “But we can’t talk about it any more. You know, just to be on the safe side, legally speaking.”
“We haven’t talked about it at all,” she said. “I have merely informed the Chief of Police that I might be representing, as co-counsel, the defendant in a murder trial.”
“And while the Chief of Police, in all conscience, can’t exactly wish you success in your defense of a cop-killer, excuse me, alleged cop-killer, he nonetheless hopes that the experience will be enlightening and fulfilling.”
“That’s grand of you, Dad.”
“I thought so.”
“And I’ll make sure Georgie doesn’t forget about your severance case.”
“I don’t think we need worry about that boondoggle for a while.”
“Wouldn’t be too sure, Dad.” She was pointing.
A long field over, on the far side of the stream, two riders were cantering horses around the perimeter of a ten-acre section that would make a great pasture with a little work. A slight but wiry man was well seated on a buckskin mare and riding beside him was a blonde Valkyrie on a red horse.
“The red horse is called Foxy,” said Orwell. “She just got her.”
“She just got all there is,” said Diana. After a moment she turned to him and smiled. “Looks like you’re off the hook, Dad.”
He hugged her arm. “I wasn’t worried,” he said. “They were made for each other.”
After delivering her boss safely to his farm, Stacy had returned to the Irish House to collect the last of the party-goers, including, somewhat to her surprise, a moist and garrulous Staff Sergeant Rawluck, who had insisted on singing “Peg O’ My Heart” all the way home. After that, she met Constable Maitland outside the Gusse Building who reported that except for a large orange tomcat observed coming down the fire escape around 12:45, and going back up the staircase at 02:30, all was quiet. Stacy took a walk around the building to reassure herself that dumpsters weren’t harbouring villains, doorways were clear, doors were locked. Nothing. No crooks, no cats, nothing moving. The fire lane and back alley were still shining wet. Dockerty, most of it anyway, had washed and gone to bed.
She told Maitland to take his break, then see to his other responsibilities, and sat in her unmarked, across and down the street with a view of Anya’s studio. Maitland brought her a coffee from Timmies, then drove off to check on a domestic call up on the Knoll. Stacy sipped and watched the window. Did it get
any better than this? Murders, break-ins, bad guys lurking, missing jewels. She couldn’t see how she’d be having more fun working in the city. This case had everything.
The last of the coffee was cold. She rolled down the window to empty it onto the street and caught a flicker of reflected light from the studio window. There was movement, a shadow. Stacy checked her weapon, half opened the car door and then stopped. The shadow was dancing. She recognized the movement as a series of slow pirouettes. She stood in the street for a long moment watching the shadow dance. After that she got back in the car and drove away.
The three windows overlooking Vankleek Street were tall and arched at the top and light entered the studio at an upward angle and stretched across the ceiling. She danced in the dark for an audience of one; the cat’s unblinking green eyes glowing in the corner. Danced in silence, hearing only the music in her head, adagios pas seul, linked fragments of ballet scores, passages once learned by arduous repetition and folded now into a solo piece composed by many, as arranged by Zubrovskaya.
I pity a world that never saw me dance. I feel sorry for Baryshnikov that he never got to partner me. I would have been perfect for him. He could have lifted me with a caress. Of all the truly great ones, the ones who should have held me in their hands, I had only one, only one of the great ones, but he was worthy of me. And I of him. People who were present on those nights were lucky. They saw something.
Soloviev, Yuri Vladimirovich. “Cosmic” Yuri they called him, because he could fly. Yuri Gagarin orbited the Earth; Yuri Vladimirovich Soloviev didn’t need a spacecraft. His technique was flawless, far better than Rudi, the equal of Misha, with elevation like Nijinsky they said, he defied gravity, he could fly. As could she. They were as weightless as earthly creatures ever are, or can be.
After Yuri blew his brains out, after Grégor dropped her in a heap, after her years of rebuilding, strengthening, learning to be fearless again, there was her time in wilderness, with only the likes of Sergei Siziva for a partner. He was unworthy, but he didn’t make mistakes. One night she chided him for dancing like a city bus, going from stop to stop. “But always on time,” he said. “And not like a Moscow driver. I wait for you.”
