Dead Lemons

by Finn Bell

  She’s got to mean the gold, I think.

  And I can piece the rest together easily enough.

  There was a gold rush here. Ben the friendly real estate agent told me about it first, and then I got a whole earful more from Black Albie when he told me about the history of Riverton. They had mines and prospecting in the rivers down here. There are still small operations now, and tourists are taken out to go panning for ingots in the rivers sometimes.

  And when Alice went out looking for fossils she found some gold and was going to give it to her parents for Christmas, but instead the Zoyls took her.

  Nothing left behind but unfinished kindness in a cake tin.

  CHAPTER 32

  April 5, TWO MONTHS AGO . . .

  I’m still preoccupied with my sad, intimate discovery as I head out to the Wild Food Festival.

  It’s already almost an hour later but I was so dirt-covered from my little expedition that I had to shower myself all over again.

  Before I left, I put the cake tin back where I found it and closed up the panel again.

  It didn’t feel right taking it out.

  But now I think maybe I should give it to Emily or Pruitt; she’s their family, after all. She was, I now realise, the very last of them.

  Emily had no other kids, and Pruitt didn’t have any either.

  And I guess now they never will.

  I’m almost out at Bluff when my phone rings again and I know it’s Tai before I answer.

  “Hi, Tai, sorry, I’m almost there, just pulling in now,” I say.

  “Good, we thought you’d got stuck somewhere. We saved you some huhu grubs, bro. Meet us at the Pale Ale tent, yuh?” Tai says, then clicks off.

  Huhu grubs. Hmm. Okay.

  I soon find that the Wild Food Festival is one loud explosion of strange people eating stranger things.

  Some of which I can immediately identify as things people don’t usually eat. Like the various insects, to things that are cunningly disguised to look like normal meals. Things which people with smiling, expectant faces only tell you is made from something horrid after your first bite.

  Although I notice that all the Rangi girls are fearlessly stuffing themselves, right down to Mihi, who is currently saying “hi” to whatever she’s got in the bowl in front of her.

  There’s whitebate fritters and smoked eel and a dubiously named ‘Meat Surprise Hot Pocket’ and a deer and cherry comfit and several things made of goat.

  The only requirement seems to be that it comes from the wild and isn’t going to kill you immediately.

  It turns out huhu grubs taste like peanut butter.

  I’m actually absentmindedly thinking of trying to find some milk to wash them down, just staring at the mass of humanity streaming by, when I see them.

  Or rather, when I see them seeing me.

  It’s the three Zoyl brothers, who I feel shouldn’t be out here with happy, normal people as if they’re a part of things. But as Pruitt has pointed out, they’re still free. They may not be innocent but they haven’t been proven guilty.

  Through the breaks in the crowd I see Sean and Archie looking right at me, talking to each other without taking their eyes off me, while Darrell is behind them stacking fishing crates.

  And I know there’s more to it, bigger things involved than just my issues but right now, I can’t think of anything but that these people were in my house, pulling on the other side of that door. These people nailed my cats to wood. I actually have the strong impulse to roll over there, not that I know what I would do when I got there, but then anger doesn’t care about forward planning.

  But then, fuck it, I think, I’m tired of being scared and careful.

  It’s as I put my hands on the wheels, ready to push forward over there, that I see them quickly turn their backs on me, all of them taking up some of the fishing crates and walking away without a second glance.

  That’s when I hear the soft, accented voice say, “Having a good day, Mr Bell?” right next to me.

  I realise then that at some point I had become flanked by the twins from Benin, Lucas and John Faso, who are also staring over at the Zoyl brothers while arrayed either side of me, standing out from the festival crowds in their business suits.

  “Ah, John, Lucas; I didn’t know you were still in town,” I say, and when I look back, the Zoyls are gone.

  “We’ve been getting to know the locals, Mr Bell. Riverton is a lovely town, and the festival, such food,” Lucas says, smiling down at something unidentifiable in the bowl in his hand.

  “It’s strange, that,” Tai says from the side as he rolls up, looking in the direction the Zoyls had gone. “They bought that crayfish from my cousin Hemi just now,” he says.

  “Why would people with a crayfish boat buy crayfish?” I ask.

  “Oh, that’s normal enough. Most of the crayfish men have exact quotas to fill, but the sea doesn’t always play along, so sometimes they catch too much or too few and then buy and sell it among themselves to even it all up. It’s not entirely legal but you can’t stop it. But that usually happens at the wharf, on the day. What’s strange is they bought all that crayfish for well beyond the usual price, no haggling for mate’s rates. Hemi wasn’t going to sell them any at first but they just kept offering more money till he had to say yes. He’s closing up his stall early now,” Tai says.

  “Yeah, strange,” I agree.

  “They must have a contract to fill with some posh restaurant somewhere,” Tai says.

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “Bah, to hell with them. Come on, let’s eat things. And you two fellas, have you tried huhu grubs?” Tai says.

  * * *

  It’s a lot of food later, after we’d found a table and settled into the rhythm of jovial people coming and going, that Pruitt also stops by.

  “Hello, Mr Bailey,” I hear Lucas say as he stands up and offers Pruitt his seat.

  “Very kind of you, Detective, but I’m afraid I passed the point of reasonable risk for plastic chairs some time ago,” Pruitt says as he pats at his bulk.

  “Are you enjoying our little festival?” he asks the twins.

  “Indeed we are. There is an amazing variety of foods. I do not know what is in this bowl,” Lucas says, pointing down, “but is tastes like something from my childhood in Benin.”

  “You guys ate a lot of bush meat, did you?” I ask.

  “Just so. In the summer, we helped our father do trapping. Red monkeys, caracals, and sometimes mongoose. Mostly to sell to zoos in Europe. We’d be in the jungle for days. My father taught us to ‘live off the land’ as you say here. Lots of good food like this,” John says with a smile.

  “Is that thing about trapping monkeys true?” Tai asks.

  “Ah, you want to know the two secrets of monkey trapping?” Lucas says with a laugh, clearly recognizing what Tai is asking about.

  “The first secret is a big pumpkin,” John chimes in with a smile.

  “You cut a small hole in the side. The whole must be just big enough for the monkey to get his hand into. Then you wait” continues Lucas, both of them clearly of one mind in this.

  “When the monkey comes he sees the hole and he smells the seeds inside, and he pushes his hand through and grabs a fist full of the seeds,” John adds further.

  “And now you’ve trapped him, because once the monkey has a fist full of seeds, his hand is too big for him to pull through the hole again. But the monkey won’t let go. So he’s trapped,” Lucas finishes.

  “And that actually works? It sounds too simple,” I say.

  “Oh, it works, Mr Bell, very well,” replies Lucas.

  “I think, Finn, that you are forgetting that Lucas said there were two secrets to monkey trapping,” Pruitt adds from across the table.

  “Indeed, just so, sir. And the first secret of the pumpkin only works if you also know the second secret,” says John.

  “So what’s the second secret?” Tai asks.

  “Ah, I’m afrai
d we can’t tell you that. Benin trade secrets,” he says with a wink that gets a laugh from the table.

  And as the conversation flows to other things, I again find myself absentmindedly staring across the flow of people, although this time my eye catches something much, much better than before.

  Because there, in a bright-red dress holding a whole raft of balloons, is Patricia, looking like every man’s dream.

  I’m only allowed a few moments to openly stare in admiration before she notices me and smiles back before heading over to the balloon stall.

  Seeing her, while good, also awakens the ache for seeing her again. Which brings my mind back to my unsolved problems. The Zoyls and my mind, and to remind me that, pleasant as this interlude is, I still have no way forward with either.

  And then I remember the cake tin back in its hiding place and think I should tell Pruitt, but he looks so happy right now, laughing with the rest of them that I don’t have the heart to do it now. Later, I decide.

  And then I forget all of it in any case as Patricia sits down next to me and the rest of the table, along with the festival, stops existing for me.

  “Hey,” she says, looking at me with a faint smile.

  “Hey,” I reply, thinking that I still don’t get what a woman like this sees in me.

  “I figure group activities like these are neutral ground for us. But don’t you try anything,” Patricia says, smiling.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, as I hold her stare. “How’re you doing?”

  “Pretty good. Festival time is a good week for the salon, lots of women wanting to look their best for the day,” she says. I actually have trouble not staring at her mouth; I still remember the taste.

  “And Kieran likes the festival. Everything here is about taste and smell and colour and texture, and for a deaf boy, those are the big things,” she says with a smile.

  “Is it hard for him down south here, being this remote?” I ask.

  “Sure, there are challenges. A lot of things would be easier in the city. Both Christchurch and Wellington have special programs. But I wanted him to grow up with his family. And down here he’s not special, he’s just a part of everything. Later, when he starts school, we’ll have to see,” she says.

  “I get that,” I say.

  With a pang I realise two things as I nod and take in the cheerful conversations around the table.

  One, that I don’t want to let her get away, not her or Tai, or any of these people. I realise I want to have tables like this in my future.

  I have too many good people I’ve only made a part of my past.

  And two, that I must be starting to think of myself as a Riverton local because I want people and I want them here, I want us, like this.

  And wanting to belong, to again own and be owned, is something I haven’t felt for a long, long time.

  That night, for the first time in days, I sleep like a baby.

  CHAPTER 33

  April 8, TWO MONTHS AGO . . .

  Pruitt lights up the cigarette on the third try with trembling fingers.

  The fact that we’re in my bathroom and he doesn’t even ask permission tells me he’s more upset than he shows.

  I called him out this morning and showed him the panel and Alice’s cake tin.

  He went quiet then, sitting on the toilet, just smoking, with the open cake tin on his lap.

  I don’t know now whether I should have told him at all.

  Maybe it’s all been too much for too long for Pruitt, I think. I’ve only been facing this uncertainty for a few months, and already I want it to be over so badly.

  Pruitt’s lived with it for years.

  Then he surprises me by snapping the lid shut and walking back to the hidey hole and pushing it back inside without a word.

  When he pushes the panel back in place, he looks over at me for the first time, with a tired smile.

  “Past 50, you start spending more time in old age homes. Especially if you’ve lived in the same small town your whole life. You get to see all the people ahead of you grow old. And many of them go before your eyes. Dementia or Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s or something. But they forget things, get confused; sometimes they become almost childlike. Emily’s that way now. The nurses tell me the ones who get like that are mostly either really happy or really sad. Emily’s a happy one for the most part. She’s only sad when she remembers the truth.”

  “What’s one more bad secret to keep between fools like us?” Pruitt says, his voice breaking behind his smile as he walks out. He doesn’t look back.

  First I hear the front door and then his car but I don’t follow, I just sit there in my bathroom.

  I’m jarred out of my thoughts by a phone call from Tai.

  “Hey, Tai,” I say absentmindedly, still thinking about Pruitt.

  “Hey, bro, what are you doing?” he asks.

  “Nothing much,” I say, not wanting to talk about it.

  “Something’s happened. I’m out here with the cops at Preservation Inlet, at Black Albie’s place. Can you come out here?” he asks.

  “Yeah, okay, I’m on the way now,” I say, wanting to ask what’s happened, but Tai has already disconnected.

  So, trying to leave my sense of hopelessness behind me in the bathroom, I head out to Black Albie’s.

  I know it could be anything, but I’m past the point of not assuming first off that it automatically has something to do with the Zoyls.

  I realise I was actually expecting an as-seen-on-TV crime scene at Black Albie’s house, complete with a bunch of cop cars and forensics taking everything apart and a taped cordon around the house. So I’m a little surprised to find that there’s just Tai’s van and one other sedan, which at least looks like an unmarked police car.

  I’m still getting myself out of the car and settled in the chair when I notice John and Lucas come out of the house towards me. The twins certainly are getting around.

  “Good morning, Mr Bell,” Lucas says behind me.

  “Hello, Lucas, John. What’s all this about?” I ask.

  “It’s Mr Rangi, Albert Hahona Rangi, you know as Black Albie. I’m sorry to have to inform you that he’s dead,” Lucas tells me.

  “How?” I say.

  “Hanging. It looks like a suicide at this stage but the investigation is ongoing. His family found him late last night after they became suspicious when he hadn’t returned their calls and also did not show up at the Wild Food Festival, which his family thought was not like him,” John answers.

  “And why am I here?” I ask.

  “Because, given the early estimates of time of death and initial accounts from his family, you were one of the last persons to see him alive, Mr Bell,” John says, and the cold trickle down the back of my neck feels that much colder.

  “That doesn’t make sense. I was here weeks ago, probably more than a month,” I say, trying to remember the day.

  “Two months, actually. We’ve checked Mr Rangi’s phone records. And we’re still waiting on more lab results and interviews. But at this stage, we believe he died approximately 7 or 8 weeks ago,” John continues.

  God, I think. That strange but nice man, hanging in there somewhere for two months and nobody finds him.

  “How is it that nobody’s found him before now?” I ask.

  “Apparently Mr Rangi was unusual in his family in that he was something of a recluse who preferred his privacy. We understand that it was not uncommon for him to be out of touch for weeks at a time. It is reported that often he would go hunting and trapping in the Fiordland for extended periods on his own,” John replies.

  “But by now it was two months and then he missed the Wild Food Festival and nobody around here does that,” I finish, remembering what they said earlier as I see Tai roll out of the house onto the front porch, where he gives me a nod then looks away. If I remember it right, Albie was Tai’s uncle.

  “Just so, Mr Bell,” John answers, nodding.

  “So what do you need fr
om me?” I ask, then thinking about it, add, “And if this is a suicide, then why are you two involved and not the local police? Do you think this has something to do with me, or the Zoyls?” I ask.

  “It is too soon to confirm what has happened here, Mr Bell. At this stage we are merely assisting in the investigation. And I apologise if our involvement has confused you or made you think this is related to your situation. I assure you, it is not. We are only following standard procedure,” John says, and I think, well that’s clearly a line being handed to me.

  “We are trying to reconstruct the events of the last days before Mr Rangi’s death. Speaking to the last people to see him is part of the process. There’s no indication that what has happened has anything to do with your case, Mr Bell,” Lucas adds.

  “Okay, what do you want to know?” I ask.

  “We’d like to know more about your relationship with Mr Rangi. How did you meet? What did you do together the last time you spoke? How did Mr Rangi seem to you? Did he seem distressed at all? Did he say anything that could indicate that he was having any problems?” John asks.

  I rack my brain, trying to think back to our meeting, but as much as I want to see something of importance, nothing stands out.

  “I’m as surprised as anyone. I can’t remember anything unusual. But then we only met the once. I was interested in learning more about the history of Riverton and I got referred to Black Al—to Mr Rangi, as the local expert. We spoke on the phone a couple of times and then he invited me out here to meet with him,” I say, noticing that both the twins are watching me closely now.

  “I came out here and we spoke for an hour and a half, maybe two. He was an interesting man,” I say.

  “How was Mr Rangi’s demeanour during the meeting; did he seem upset or anxious at all?” John asks.

  “Not that I can remember, he seemed fine to me. We spoke about the local history, had a cup of tea, and he showed me some of his collection. He seemed fine,” I say.

  “Could you take us through things in detail? As much as you can remember,” Lucas asks.