The Suspect - L R Wright

by L. R. Wright

  Cassandra got up to clear the table. Alberg helped. In the kitchen she reached to switch on the light, but he stopped her.

  "No, look,” he said, taking plates from her. He put them on the counter and turned her toward the window, his hands on her shoulders. The moon had broken through the clouds to shine bright above the water.

  "It's beautiful,” she said. I

  "Is that why you're here? Because it's beautiful?”

  "I'm here because my mother's got heart disease,” said Cassandra, looking at the moon, which was being obscured once more by cloud. "She's lived in Sechelt for more than twenty years. When my father died, my brother and I decided one of us ought to live near her. Not with her, I told him I wouldn't do that, not under any circumstances. But near her was okay. He's married, has kids, lives in Edmonton. I was in Vancouver. It was easier for me.”

  He turned her around to face him. "What did you give up to move here, Cassandra?”

  "Quite a lot, actually. But it'll keep."

  "What was it? A man?”

  Cassandra laughed. "I said it would keep, didn't I? No, it wasn't a man. I'd been to Europe for the summer and got all excited about traveling. I was going to sell everything I owned and go live someplace strange and foreign for a while."

  His lips brushed her cheek. Oh, Jesus, thought Cassandra. She would tell him anything in bed, she knew it: all her hopes, all her dreams, all her worries about George Wilcox.

  "What about men?" he said. "Tell me about the men in your life.”

  "Like hell I will.” Cassandra pulled slightly away from him. "Listen, Karl, you're getting too personal too fast."

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly against his chest. "I like you. I want to know things about you."

  "I'm happy here,” she told him, her voice muffled in his shirt. "I like my job and I like this place and I have lots of friends.”

  "How come you put an ad in the paper?” He was rubbing a big hand slowly up and down her back. "You're wearing a bra."

  "I always wear a bra. I put an ad in the paper—it's none of your damn business why I put an ad in the paper."

  "Sure it is. I answered it." He bent his head and rested his hot cheek, sticky with ointment, against her temple.

  Cassandra pushed herself away. She put her hands on his chest, to keep him at a distance. "All right," she said. "I put an ad in the paper in the hope of finding a pleasant, courteous, not unattractive male person, intelligent and interesting, with whom I might enjoy adequate conversation and spectacular sex.”

  She dropped her hands. She knew her face must be as red as his.

  "Well?" said Alberg. "So?” He held out his arms and capered around in a clumsy circle. "What do you think?”

  She made a determined effort not to laugh. "I don't know yet. I haven't decided."

  The phone rang.

  He dove at her, growling. She fought him off, laughing, and they stood in the darkened kitchen smiling at one another. Then he stepped close and kissed her, and she put her arms around him.

  The phone continued to ring.

  "Shit," said Alberg after a while. "It's probably for me."

  It was Sokolowski.

  Alberg told Cassandra he had to leave. He told her he had to interview a suspect in the Burke homicide.

  With an odd deliberateness, Cassandra put her hand delicately to her throat. "Anybody I know?” she said casually.

  "Could be," said Alberg. "You seem to know everyone in town." He smiled, kissed her again, and pulled on his yellow boots.

  She watched him drive away.

  She tried to feel relief.

  Surely he wouldn't have gone off so cheerfully if it was George Wilcox, his white hair springing from his head in the indomitable waves that so touched her heart, who was sitting patiently in God knew what kind of a rathole of a cell, waiting to be grilled by the Mounties about murder.

  But if it wasn't George, she thought suddenly, feeling sick, who was sitting there, waiting for Alberg the cop?

  CHAPTER 25

  "Good dinner?" said Sokolowski innocently from the counter where a constable just beginning night duty was checking the book.

  "You're working overtime again, Sid," said Alberg. "Where is this guy?"

  Sokolowski pointed. "Right over there.”

  On the green-cushioned bench in the reception area sat a man about forty, dark-haired, with a beard showing some silver. He was wearing jeans and a denim jacket, and western boots, and smoking a cigarette.

  "How did we find him?" said Alberg. From its covered cage next to Isabella's desk, not far from the fish seller, the parrot muttered.

  "We didn't find him. He found us. Saw the story in the local rag, he says, and drove right over."

  The rainbowed van was in the parking lot. Alberg had stopped to have a close look, on his way in. It was the right van, all right: orange paint underneath, where the gray had flecked away, lots of bluebirds.

  "Bring him into my office," said Alberg.

  When he got there, Alberg motioned the man to the black chair. Sokolowski leaned in the doorway.

  "What's your name?" said Alberg, who was standing by the window.

  "Derek Farley. I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. " His voice was deep and melodious. He spoke slowly and deliberately and seemed perfectly relaxed. "I only come into town once a week. Saw in the paper while I was having a meal that you've been looking for me and my van."

  "We had a homicide here last Tuesday. I guess you read about that, too."

  "Yes. A Mr. Burke, it said. He was one of the people who bought a salmon from me." He pulled out his cigarettes and a folder of matches. "Mind if I smoke?"

  "Go ahead," said Alberg. "Where do you live, Mr. Farley?”

  The man shook out the match and put it in the ashtray on Alberg's coffee table. "Up near Garden Bay. I've got a little cabin there, out in the bush."

  "What do you do for a living?"

  Farley grinned at him. "I sell things. Fish, vegetables. It depends on the season. My wife's got a big garden. She's also a weaver. There's a couple of stores—one in Garden Bay, another in Gibsons; we're working on one in Sechelt, here—they take her things on consignment. Ponchos, things like that.” He dragged on his cigarette. "I'm a carpenter, too. I do work for people all up and down the coast." He grinned again. "Word of mouth. I'm good at it. Slow, but good."

  "Tell us about last Tuesday. That was your day in town, was it?”

  "I came down to Sechelt, yes. Let's see.” He stubbed out his cigarette. "I've been trying to get it straight. A week ago, that's a long time."

  "What time did you leave home?” said Sokolowski. "Let's start with that.” '

  "I left about eight. Had a dozen salmon in the van, packed in ice in washbuckets. Sold about four-five fish in Madeira Park, Secret Cove. Had some coffee and a doughnut at a little place near Halfmoon Bay. It must have been . . . sometime after eleven, I guess, when I got here. I remember I drove right through Sechelt and turned around, figuring to try to get rid of the rest of the fish along the road outside of town, then stop for a bite to eat and head on home.”

  "And is that what happened?" said Alberg.

  "Pretty well. I still had—I had five left when I stopped for lunch. That's right. Forgot I sold one to the guy who runs the cafe at Halfmoon Bay. I remember thinking I should keep on going down toward Gibsons, try to get rid of the rest of them there, but I was pointing in the wrong direction by then.” He grinned up at them. "But it turned our okay. When I got back to Garden Bay I went down to the wharf and sold all five to some tourists up from Seattle in two big yachts."

  "I'm happy for you, Mr. Farley," said Alberg. "But could we get back to the ones you sold here?"

  "Yes, sure, sorry. Well, let's see. I sold two. Now I know you'll want to know what time this was. Let me think .... "

  Alberg and Sokolowski waited. Alberg picked up a pen that was lying on his desk. Sokolowski shifted in the doorway, turning a page in his notebo
ok. Alberg leaned against the filing cabinet and discovered that Isabella had put a plant on top of it; long leafy tendrils wafted down the side of the cabinet nearest the window.

  "It was after eleven when I got here," said Farley, confident. "And it was about twelve-thirty when I went into that little place down from the library, to have some lunch. And it must have taken me—oh, say twenty minutes to drive through town and get turned around. So I'd say I was trying to sell my fish from about eleven forty-five until about twelve fifteen." He smiled, contented. "That'd be about right.”

  "About half an hour, then," said Alberg. "Tell us what you did and what you saw." He moved to the window and peered out at the van from between the slats in the blind. In the light from the building he could see rain spattering the roofs of the van, the patrol cars, and his Oldsmobile.

  Farley sighed. "This is tough. Let's see.” He looked up at Sokolowski. "You know, I can't possibly remember everything. It was a week ago. just an ordinary day. I know I didn't see anything particularly unusual. I know for sure I didn't see anything suspicious."

  "Try, though, will you?" said Alberg, turning from the window.

  "That Burke fellow, I do remember he was the second one to buy. And the last. I pulled over, crossed the street, went through a hedge and down a path. The door was open. I looked around but there wasn't any bell, so I just banged on the door. I remember thinking I ought to holler something, since the door was open, but I couldn't think of anything. So I just waited, and in a minute a voice says, 'Coming.' So I just stood there on the step, holding the salmon, and eventually this tall old man came down the hall toward me.”

  "What happened then?” said Alberg, after a minute during which Farley frowned at his knees.

  "Well, he said, 'Ah, a peddler of fish.' It was obvious; I was standing there holding it. 'I used to catch my own,' he said, 'but not any more,' or something like that. Then he told me he'd buy it because a friend was coming over for lunch and it would be a nice treat." He looked at them and shrugged.

  "That's it. He gave me a couple of bucks and I gave him the fish, and then I went back to the van. I was getting hungry by this time, so I headed straight for the cafe." He shook his head resignedly. "A lot of people around here catch their own fish. The tourists are your best bet. My wife keeps telling me that, and she's right."

  "Can you tell us anything about the inside of Mr. Burke's house?" said Alberg. "Did you notice anything special about it? Anything valuable? Anything worth stealing?"

  Farley smiled, slowly. "What are you trying to suggest? That I spotted something interesting and came back and killed the old guy for it?" He looked at Alberg reproachfully. "I never got past his front step. Besides, I am not a thief. Also, I am a pacifist."

  “Just one more thing," said Alberg. "This friend he was expecting. Did he say anything more about him? Like, was it a man or a woman, or what time he or she was supposed to arrive?"

  "No. Nothing more than I've told you."

  "By the way," said Sokolowski. "You left here after lunch last Tuesday, right?"

  "Right. Headed back up to Garden Bay.”

  "How come you're still around today, at this time of night?"

  Farley grinned. "I don't keep to a rigid schedule, like most folks. Today I didn't have any fish. Today I was peddling my wife's ponchos. Didn't leave home until noon or so. Had to deal with the place in Garden Bay, then drive all the way down to Gibsons.”

  "Okay, Mr. Farley,” said Alberg. "Thanks very much for your cooperation. Would you leave your address with the sergeant, please? Just in case we have to get in touch with you. And you'd better give him the names of the stores you deal with in Gibsons and Garden Bay, too.”

  Sokolowski saw him out and returned to Alberg's office, where the staff sergeant sat behind his desk with his chin in his hands. "I guess we've got to check him out, Sid." He touched his nose, gingerly, and tried to remember if he'd brought Cassandra's ointment with him.

  Sokolowski slumped in the black chair. "He could have done it,” he said wearily. "He could have. But why didn't he take some of that stuff with him? The silver, stuff like that?"

  "If he did it,” said Alberg, who had found the tube of ointment in his shirt pocket and was unscrewing the top, "it was damn smart of him to wander in here and tell us this tale, before we found him." He dabbed the clear gel on his nose and closed his eyes as his skin immediately cooled; he wished Cassandra was there to do it for him. He sighed and opened his eyes. "Check him out, Sid. I don't think he did it. But it's possible.”

  "You still want to search the victim's house again?"

  "You're damn right I do.”

  "Sanducci will be at the house at eight.”

  "Tell him to start without me," said Alberg. "I've got some paperwork to do. I keep trying to forget there's more going on around here than this damn homicide, but Isabella won't let me."

  There was a knock on the door, and Freddie Gainer stuck his head in.

  "Look at that face,” said Alberg to Sokolowski. "He was out on that boat all afternoon too, and is he burned? No. What have you got to report, Constable? It can't be good. You would have radioed ahead.”

  "Right, Staff," said Gainer. "They've packed it in. No luck. All they found was this." He came into the office.

  "What the hell is it?" said Sokolowski.

  Gainer held it out. It was still dripping. "It's a burlap bag, Sarge.”

  "Jesus holy Christ,” said Alberg, staring.

  "It could have been from anything, Karl," said Sokolowski, also staring at it. "There's probably dozens of them out there. You can't trace those things. You can find them in anybody's garage, or barn, or back porch—”

  "Or toolshed," said Alberg, numbly. He looked at Sokolowski. "They're out there, all right, Sid. They're out there. We're just never going to find them, that's all."

  Gainer backed out of the office, still holding the burlap bag. "I'll tag it anyway, Staff."

  Sokolowski rested his forearms on his knees and stared at the floor. "You know, Karl, I think you may be right. I finally think you may be right about that old guy. I think he was the guy supposed to turn up for lunch. And I think he did it. But you know what else?" he said heavily, looking up at Alberg. "I also think you're not going to get him on it.”

  "I've got no witnesses," said Alberg, almost cheerfully. "No evidence. And up to now, no motive. It doesn't look good, does it?" He smiled. "Unless I get a confession.”

  Sokolowski looked doubtful. "He's a pretty tough old bird. And you'd still need corroboration."

  "Yeah, I know. But let's worry about one thing at a time. If I can find the motive, let him know I know why he did it—then maybe he'll crack. He's not the kind of guy who goes around doing homicide whenever he loses his temper. He's going to want to talk to somebody about it." He stood up, stretched, and turned off the desk lamp.

  "Seems a shame," said Sokolowski with a sigh, hauling himself to his feet, "A nice old guy like that."

  "A nice old guy,” said Alberg, "who snuffed his ex-brother-in-law. You really want him to get away with that, Sergeant? I don't."

  CHAPTER 26

  George heard the rain fall throughout the restless night, a soft absentminded rain that would bathe his garden and feed it and not pummel it into the ground. He couldn't sleep and found the sound of the rain soothing. At some point he must have slept, though, because he opened his eyes and the night was gone and the rain, too, and through his curtained windows some sunlight was filtering.

  He got dressed and went to the back door. He put his gnarled hand around the worn round knob and looked fixedly at the door, not seeing its yellow paint, slightly greasy from six months' accumulation of grime, not able to move, trying hard not to let the moment overwhelm him. Then he turned the knob, pushed the door open, and walked out for the last time into his garden.

  He saw that the clouds were fleeing quickly. Those too close to the sun were shriveling into nothing, burning away, and soon the sky would be quit
e clear again.

  George stood on his still-damp grass and watched steam rise from his garden. He touched the marigolds and stroked the petals of the roses and laid his cheek against a hydrangea blossom and cut a big bunch of sweet peas and wished he could pick a zucchini, but there weren't any yet.

  He spent considerable time outdoors, inspecting, admiring, approving. He was aware of stirrings and rustlings, fragrances, glorious splashes of color. He heard birds arguing in the arbutus tree, and noticed a new influx of aphids on the roses, and saw that the tide had left new driftwood on his beach. He didn't know how to say goodbye to his garden, or to tell it that he had loved it.

  He went back into his kitchen, put the sweet peas in water, and 'made himself some coffee. He got a. notepad and a pen from his desk in the den—a room he had used scarcely at all since Myra's death—and sat down in his leather chair with his coffee to make a list.

  He had a lot to do today. It took him half an hour to make the list. As soon as it was complete, he looked at the first item: library book:. He would work his way down from the top. That was the sensible way of going about things.

  * * *

  "Wilcox here.”

  She was ridiculously relieved to hear his voice, even though it was curiously dry and remote.

  "Mr. Wilcox? It's Cassandra. I'm calling to check up on you—I hope you don't mind. How's your chest? Did you sleep well? Are you feeling better today?" She got it all out in a rush and waited anxiously for him to reply.

  "Cassandra?" He sounded amazed. "Where are you calling me from? The library?"

  "Yes. How are you? May I come to see you? I was worried about you yesterday. I'd like to make sure you're all right.”

  "You were the first thing on my list," he said. "It must be an omen. There are some books I have to return, you see. The only thing is, I don't think I'm up to making the walk into town today, and my car's still in the garage."

  "Then I'll come by and get them," said Cassandra. "All right? May I come?"