by Cathy Ace
MARCH
Domestic Violence
The blood from Dominic’s head wound pooled beneath his crumpled, dead body.
‘Now, what are you going to do, Sharon Taylor?’ I asked myself.
Bounty, the quicker-picker-upper flashed through my mind. Paper towels were not going to be enough; nothing would ever remove this stain from the floor.
‘I hate you, Dominic. The grouting’s ruined and you’re bleeding all over everything. Typical.’ I knew that shouting at him wouldn’t help the situation, but it helped me. ‘Come on, Sharon, pull yourself together,’ I told myself.
If only Dominic hadn’t kept going on about my hair. He certainly hadn’t needed to laugh. He knew I was upset about the perm. I’ll never go to that dreadful hairdresser again. I’d said that. And he knew I’d been crying all afternoon about it. So why did he have to laugh? It really wasn’t necessary.
And now there he was. Dead in the middle of the den.
Maybe if I hadn’t had the poker in my hand when he’d laughed at me, there wouldn’t be this mess. But, as it was, I had no choice. I had to stop him laughing. I supposed at least I’d managed that.
If only I’d killed him in the bathroom; that would have been much easier to clean up – a couple of bottles of bleach and I’d be done. Now it would be much more difficult to get rid of the evidence.
I rolled Dominic onto his back with my foot.
It was real unfair of him to laugh at my hair disaster. Frankly, he was no oil painting himself. I looked at my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. I thought maybe I could go back to Cynthia and ask her to cut my hair short. That would get rid of most of the perm, and it might even kinda suit me. After all, now that Dominic was gone I’d be getting back into the dating scene again.
But first, I had the floor, and the body, to sort out.
By nine o’clock I’d just about finished clearing up, except for actually burying the body; that would have to wait until later. I was just in time to sit down and watch a CSI rerun. Just as well I’ve ‘wasted so much time’ watching this ‘rubbish’ as Dominic always called it. Nowadays I know lots of stuff about all types of things that make it much easier to clean up properly after a murder. All I have to do this time is tile over the tiles that are already on the floor, and I’ll be fine. Tiling is pretty easy, really; I don’t know why men make such a fuss about it, and now’s a good time of year to get supplies in the March Madness sales. I’ll go for a neutral color; they always say neutral’s best on those home makeover shows.
But the den will do for now; there’s not a drop of blood to be seen with the naked eye – just the fresh smell of bleach, and a hint of citrus disinfectant in the air.
I wasn’t always so knowledgeable about cleaning up after such an incident, of course. When Barry and I had that run-in in Saskatoon six years ago, I had to replace the whole back deck before I moved. That was a pain, and expensive too; I had to take the whole thing down, burn it, and rebuild a new one, because you just can’t get blood out of wood, no matter how hard you try. That Luminol they have these days is too clever by half.
The entire project took me weeks, and all the time people kept dropping in with cakes and stews to tell me how sorry they were that Barry the Beast – my pet name for him – had run out on me. Little did they know that all those fires in the back yard hadn’t just been to ‘get rid of mold’, but had been pretty good cover for burning the body parts too.
Of course, all this nonsense with Dominic means I’ll have to start over. Again. It’s not easy trying to move on. With nothing. Name changes cost good money. But, after Barry I did it all okay; I picked myself up, moved to Vancouver, and met Dominic. I guess we’ve been pretty happy. Until last week, that is. I should have seen this coming, then.
Dominic was like Barry in so many ways: demanding his dinner be on the table when he came through the door at night; scowling whenever I spent any money on myself. It’s not as though he’d let me work, so of course it was all ‘his’ money. He’d even started to mention how much I was spending on cleaning products. He seemed to have no idea that a woman needs a well-stocked cupboard under the sink, just in case.
CSI was kinda disappointing – it was a real old repeat. It was the one where they find the woman’s body in the sandbox, and Grissom flirts with the dominatrix madam. Not a bad episode, I guess, but I don’t think they need to bring sex into it quite so much. Not everything’s about sex. Sex is pretty unimportant when you compare it with companionship.
That’s not what Dominic thought. I found all those magazines in the garage on Friday. Filthy beast. He tried to make out he was ‘holding them for a buddy’. Yeah, right. I didn’t think they even printed those things anymore. Maybe they don’t. Maybe he’s had them for years.
I’m no tart, not like the women in those magazines. He liked that about me when we met. He liked that I was quiet, and cooked him nice meals in my basement apartment. He liked that I insisted we got married before we did the full sex thing. And, to be fair, he did seem to go off it pretty fast after the wedding. Which was good. And then there are always headaches to fall back on. So we got by quite well, really.
I guess it’ll be easy enough to get used to sleeping alone again; it’s almost spring and the weather will be getting warmer, not colder. His feet were always freezing in the winter anyway, so at least I won’t have to put up with that any more.
I’ll need an early start in the morning; best set the alarm for 5 a.m. I never wanted to live on acreage in the back of beyond, but it was Dominic’s money so I had to agree. As it all turns out, that’s a pretty good thing now; I can drag his body behind the compost pile when it’s dark, then put him under the flower bed I was planning for the far side of the septic field. All the plants are there, ready to go. We’re pretty isolated out here, but if someone were to catch a glimpse of me from the road pulling his body from the house, that wouldn’t be good. So I can do the rest tomorrow in daylight, but get him out of the house in the dark.
What a day it’s been.
It all started when I got up and dragged Dominic’s body out to the side of the house. By half past eight I’d dug a real big hole, covered him over, had my breakfast, and I’d finished the planting. It should look pretty nice by July – lots of yellows and oranges; I like bright flowers. And quite a few are perennials, so I won’t have to keep replanting every year, which always saves a lot of work and expense.
Then they called from Dom’s work, Webster’s Wood Products. I’d been expecting the call. They wondered where he was, of course. I said he’d gone off to the office at the mill as usual that morning, and I hadn’t heard from him since. Wouldn’t expect to. They said there must have been a mix up. I said okay. That was that.
I don’t know what they meant by a ‘mix up’; he goes to work every day, so they must expect him every day. How can something so simple get ‘mixed up’? Maybe they thought he was supposed to be at one of his Downtown meetings instead of at the mill itself. Maybe he was supposed to be at a meeting, I don’t know, and I really don’t care. But I did try to sound a little worried when the girl spoke to me; they often talk about ‘affect and intonation’ on the TV shows I watch, so I hope I got that bit right.
Once I’d got them off the phone, I drove Dom’s truck along the back roads to the Canadian Tire parking lot where they don’t have any cameras. Thanks for that handy hint, Mr Grissom. Just in case anyone saw me, I wore one of Dom’s old shirts and his floppy old gardening hat; another thing I’ve learned from TV is they say people only remember shapes, not faces, so that’s good.
After I’d dumped the truck, taken off his clothes, and thrown his keys into the river, I walked over to Cynthia’s Salon. I cried a bit when I got there and told her that my husband hadn’t been very kind about my new hair-do, so she cut my hair for free and we all agreed it looked much better. She said I can go back in a month for a tidy-up at no charge. She’s not so bad really, just young,
I guess.
I caught the bus home. I’d been wearing a bandage on my wrist to make out that I’d hurt myself gardening and that’s why I couldn’t drive, so if I bumped into anyone I knew on the bus I’d be covered. It’s a decent walk from the bus stop, but it gave me time to think. I planned how I’d re-organize the closet when I got rid of all Dom’s stuff; I’ll use the bags from Big Brothers BC – they’re always grateful for cast-offs.
But when I got home, who should be there but the police!
I must admit I got a shock when I turned the corner and saw them at the front door. For a minute I thought about just keeping on walking, but I realized that was plain silly, and that I should find out what they wanted.
And I’m glad I did. Well, kinda.
There was a cute young girl in casual street-clothes, called Sally, and a Staff Sergeant Broquet. Pleasant enough guy in his late forties. Kinda glum-looking. Well pressed uniform.
I let them in, and offered them tea, and cake or cookies. I asked them if they liked my hair because I’d just had it done, and they said they liked it very much. Then the guy in the uniform told me they’d come about Dominic.
I gotta admit, I wondered what they meant.
They asked me when I’d last seen him, and I told them he’d gone off to work as usual that morning. Then I told them that the folks had called from the mill to say he wasn’t there, but that, no, I wasn’t worried because I knew he often went into the Downtown area for meetings, so I assumed that was where he’d gone.
Then they hit me with the bombshell.
The cop in the well-pressed uniform spoke first. Nice voice. French speaker, so he was kinda formal.
‘I’m sorry to inform you, Mrs Taylor, that we are urgently seeking an interview with your husband. Usually we would not divulge details, but we are concerned that you might try to shield him. Let me assure you that would not be a good idea.’
I noticed he looked over at the girl Sally as he spoke to me. He seemed to be urging her to carry on for him, but he didn’t catch her eye. Finally he turned his face toward me again, but I noticed that his eyes weren’t looking directly into mine. He cleared his throat. I couldn’t imagine what he was about to tell me. Or ask.
‘There’s no easy way to say this, Mrs Taylor, so I’ll just tell you outright.’
He seemed to pause for a whole minute. I actually felt my eyes open as wide as they could as I waited for him to speak.
Eventually he said, ‘We have CCTV footage that shows a man clearly identifiable as your husband entering a hotel room in Downtown Vancouver with a known prostitute yesterday afternoon where, shortly after he left the room, she was found to have been . . . violently murdered.’
He let it sink in.
I must admit, it took a moment.
I sipped my tea and took another cookie – my home-made oatmeal with dried apricot, real tasty, if I do say so myself.
‘You mean my Dom was in a hotel? Downtown? Yesterday?’ I’m sure I sounded genuinely surprised. I gotta admit, I was.
‘I’m afraid so, Mrs Taylor.’ When she finally spoke, Sally had a sweet voice. Local girl. West Coast. Even so, I didn’t think this was the sort of thing a girl of her age should be worrying about; she looked to be in her early twenties. ‘It seems he was a regular client of this particular prostitute, ma’am.’ She seemed real upset about it.
I sipped again.
‘And you think he’s murdered this . . . woman?’ I didn’t want to say the other word.
‘I’m afraid so, ma’am,’ the girl replied. She seemed kind, but too thin, of course. They’re all too thin these days. She continued, looking at the cop, then me. ‘We’re really in very little doubt about this case. We know they went in together, at which time she was fine. We know Mr Taylor came out alone, and we have several of your husband’s fingerprints on the –’ she glanced at the cop –‘murder weapon, and inside the room.’ Her eyes were big and round, and she looked real sad.
It sounded pretty damning. And I was sure there was more they weren’t telling me. They always hold something back, don’t they? Then they can catch out the murderer when they give themselves away by knowing something the police never told anyone.
The cop spoke next. ‘Did you notice anything unusual about your husband when he came home last night? Did he maybe rush to change his clothing? Was he unusually excitable?’
I thought back to the previous evening. I tried to be honest.
‘I guess he was a bit more picky than usual,’ I admitted. ‘We had a row about my hair. He thought the perm I’d had was a mess, so I went and got it all cut off this morning. He was right. But he didn’t need to be so nasty about it.’
Sally and the cop exchanged a knowing look.
‘Might we see the clothes your husband wore yesterday?’ asked the cop.
I pictured the blood-soaked shirt and muddy pants clinging to Dom’s body, buried beneath the soil close to the windows through which I was staring.
‘Now that could be a problem,’ I admitted. I put down my cup and looked them each straight in the eye – her first. Her eyebrows arched in query.
My mind whirred and clicked into place. ‘After we had the row, I made Dom sleep in the spare room. When he went off to work this morning he had the same clothes on as yesterday because I wouldn’t let him into the bedroom to get fresh ones.’
I picked up my tea; I needed a sip of something hot and sweet. They nodded. They understood.
‘I’m real sorry,’ I added. ‘It sounds so horrible now.’ I shook my head helplessly. Intonation and affect. Intonation and affect. I let the cup and saucer shake a little as I held it. Sally took them from me. She patted my hand.
They left pretty soon afterwards. Sally said she’d stay with me, but I said no, I’d rather be alone. They were real keen that I promised to get in touch with them if Dom were to contact me. I guess they’ll tap the phone line now, and probably keep an eye on the house too.
It’s just as well I buried him this morning, I’d never have been able to do it this afternoon.
They’ll never give up looking for Dom, they say. It’s been six months now and they still haven’t tracked him down. Of course, they weren’t surprised that he’d disappeared. They’d even expected it. The Victim Support people have been real nice; they see me as a victim too, you see, which is right in a way. I’ve had to get a job to support myself, which they’ve helped out with. Working in an office isn’t so bad, but I’m still not sure if I can afford to keep the house on. It’s a worry, I gotta admit.
Sally and I have become pretty friendly. She thinks it’s fine for me to date now; tell the truth, she’s encouraging me. She’s always trying to get me to meet new people. In fact, I’m off to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Fall Ball on Friday with a nice widower who used to work in the criminalistics office. Not out in the field like they do on TV, more on the filing side. We get along just fine. Brian’s his name. He’s almost bald, but he likes my cooking. Brian’s real concerned about his teeth, which is a good thing when you’re in your late fifties.
I might let him kiss me soon, I guess, but I’m still a married woman really. I have to wait before I can divorce Dom due to desertion, but Brian says that’s okay; he understands that we are seeing each other under very unusual circumstances.
Brian loves gardening. He was real impressed with my new flower bed. He even helped me keep the weeds under control through the late summer. He’s so good around the place. Handy. Three acres is a lot to look after when you’re alone.
Brian has a cute little condo in New Westminster. He’s mentioned that it has plenty of space for two, and I’ll admit it would be much easier to keep clean than this old place, but I can’t sell the house because it’s joint property. All I can do is keep it and keep paying the mortgage, or stop paying the mortgage and they’ll take it away from me. Now that would be a real shame. And, of course, someone might choose to dig up that new flower bed, and I c
an’t have that.
I guess I’ll have to stick it out at the place for as long as I can. If I do have to move Dom I’d rather do it when he’s just bones; he’ll be at the messy stage about now. I had to deal with one of those about twenty years ago, and I swore then I’d never touch the stuff again. Disgusting gloop.
Luckily, Brian has said he might move into my basement and help me out with the mortgage payments. Maybe we can talk about that again on Friday. I reckon I saw a gleam in his eye when he mentioned it; he might think we could share a room. But, of course, that would be out of the question while I’m still married. I’ll ask him what he really meant when he picks me up to go to the ball.
I just hope he doesn’t turn out to be like all the others. Dominic and Barry were bad enough, not to mention Ben and Ted. And Gordy, back East? He was a real pain. I hope Brian’s different. I deserve a good one this time.
APRIL
Negroni
Doug Rossi considered himself a lucky man: he’d been born to a loving couple; raised in a small but caring community on the west coast of Scotland; married his childhood sweetheart, and ran a well-established family business – Rossi’s Fish and Chips – with a prime location on the seafront.
Most other people in the village considered Doug cursed: he was the only child of five siblings to survive infancy; his fisherman father had been lost at sea when Doug was very young, leaving his mother to run a foundering chip shop alone, then she had died just weeks after his eighteenth birthday; his wife of seventeen years had recently been killed when her car hit a stray cow and – to top it all – the local council was insisting Doug make thousands of pounds’ worth of alterations to his ramshackle chip shop, or be closed down.
