Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by H. Mel Malton

  John took a swing at the other guy, throwing himself off balance. He staggered and to make up for it, started roaring like a moose in heat.

  The other guy hit back, clipping him on the chin and John went berserk. There was a screech like the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail, and then Francy was in there, clinging to his back and screaming at him to stop.

  John acted like he was being bothered by a horse-fly. He shook himself, once, which made her lose her grip. Then he turned around, looked her right in the eye and belted her.

  “I’ll never forget it,” I said. “It was the most gut wrenching thing I’ve ever seen. It was as natural to him as breathing. His fist just came round and whacked her. I stopped being scared because I got really, really mad.”

  “You waded in, huh?” Morrison said.

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m not the fighting type, but when John hit Francy, everyone kind of surged forward. Most people around here, if they see a couple of guys duking it out, they’ll just move back and watch, but if a woman gets hit, they get angry.

  “Suddenly I was next to Francy,” I said. “I grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the way just as three guys jumped John. Her lip was bleeding. I asked her if she wanted me to call the—you guys, but she said there was no point. She said she never had the heart to charge him with anything.”

  “So this was not an isolated incident,” Becker said.

  “Nope. It happened all the time.”

  Francy had always been very tough about it. Stoic. I’d tried to do the caring-woman-friend number on her, but she wasn’t interested. She insisted that she could handle it. She hated me butting in.

  “So,” I said, “she took me by the hand like a little girl and said ‘let’s get a beer.’ But she stopped to tap some guy on the shoulder and say ‘Don’t hurt him much, just knock him out.’ They did.”

  “Jesus,” Becker said.

  “I ended up driving them home. John was still passed out, so some helpful guys loaded him into the back of George’s pickup, because the keys to John’s truck had disappeared. Turns out that one of his buddies confiscated them because John was too drunk to drive. He meant to give them to Francy, but he forgot and left.”

  “It’s nice to know that the message is getting through to some people, some of the time. There are responsible citizens out there after all,” Becker said, pleased.

  “Buddy with the keys put his own car into the ditch that night. Pissed to the gills. That’s why he forgot to give the keys back.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, I helped her drag John into the house, and she gave me a cup of coffee. We talked. Since then, we’ve been pretty good friends. John still flies—flew, I guess—into a rage now and then, but Francy always told me to butt out. You know how it is.”

  “I sure do, and it drives me crazy,” Becker said. “You get called out on a domestic. Neighbours, usually, complaining about the noise. You arrive and there’s some guy just whaling away on his wife, or girlfriend or whatever. She defends him, refuses to lay charges. When we do, because we have to, either she doesn’t show up in court, or she recants the whole thing.”

  “I know. I read the papers. It’s a syndrome or something,” I said.

  Morrison snorted. “What I can’t understand is all you feminists saying it’s the guy’s fault when it’s the woman who just stays there and takes it. Why don’t they just leave?”

  “Don’t start on the feminist thing, Morrison,” Becker said, quietly. I had a feeling they’d been through this once or twice before. Morrison didn’t reply.

  We had arrived at the Travers’ place. The clapboard house was flanked by a row of derelict cars like a shabby bride with rusty bridesmaids. Some of the cars were on blocks, most had their hoods up.

  Next to the house was a garage, a big quonset hut with filthy windows and a half open front, spilling car parts and unidentifiable slabs of metal. A beautifully hand-painted sign announced “Auto Repair and Body Shop—J. Travers, prop.” Francy had painted the sign for John’s birthday the year before.

  A dog, chained to a doghouse a few feet from the front door of the house, began barking furiously.

  “That’s Lug-nut,” I said. “John’s hunting dog. The rule is he’s not supposed to be touched, ever. He’s kept hungry and he is not a happy puppy. Don’t be patting him.”

  “Not likely,” Becker said. “He’s tied up, right?”

  “He’s tied up.”

  There was no sign of movement inside the house. Usually Lug-nut’s welcome would bring someone out immediately, or at least prompt a twitch of the dingy curtains at the window.

  “Are you just gonna sit there?” Morrison said. “Afraid of the puppy?”

  Becker turned to Morrison in the first show of temper I had seen him display towards his bulky partner. It was long overdue, as far as I was concerned.

  “Morrison,” he said, “considering the fact that you have not moved your goddamn fat ass from that seat since we started work, and considering that you won’t be moving it until the end of the shift, I would appreciate it if you would keep your stupid mouth shut.” With that he got out of the cruiser and slammed the door shut with his foot.

  “Geez,” Morrison said. “I was only kidding.”

  Becker opened my door and handed me out with the manners of a highly-professional butler. He slammed my door too.

  “Bravo,” I said, very quietly.

  We went to the door, giving Lug-nut a wide berth. The dog was almost hysterical now, and despite myself, I felt sorry for him.

  “It’s okay, Lug-nut. It’s okay, boy.” I always said that, using my most soothing voice. It probably didn’t make a scrap of difference to Lug-nut, but it made me feel braver.

  Becker had been knocking but there was no reply.

  “That’s odd,” I said. “It’s almost noon, and Francy usually puts the baby down for a nap around now and has a smoke on the porch.” (I didn’t tell Becker what kind of smoke she has on the porch at noon. I’m not stupid.) “You can usually set your watch by her.”

  “There’s no car here,” Becker said, “or at least no car you could drive. Maybe she’s at a doctor’s appointment or something.”

  “Francy doesn’t have a car and she can’t drive anyway,” I said. “John’s truck’s missing, though. It wasn’t at the dump, was it?”

  “Nope. What kind of truck was it?”

  “GMC half-ton. Beat up. Baby-poo brown. Don’t know the year.”

  Becker went down the steps back to the cruiser to talk to Morrison. I supposed they would put out an A.P.—whatchamacallit for the truck.

  “Try Kelso’s Tavern in Laingford,” I called. “He used to drink there practically every night.”

  Becker nodded, presumably passing the information along. Lug-nut had stopped barking. In fact, he had stopped doing much of anything. He was lying with his head between his paws, ears drooping instead of the usual flat-against-the-skull signal to back off. His ribs stuck out. His water bowl was empty. He whined once, piteously.

  I felt awful. Francy didn’t like the dog, I knew that, but depriving him of water was mean.

  “Are those crocodile tears?” I said to him. “If I come over there to fill your bowl, will you bite my hand off?” He didn’t say.

  Becker returned. “We’ll be looking for Travers’s truck,” he said. “Now, what about Mrs. Travers? She got a neighbour she might have gone to?”

  Then I realized that the pram was gone.

  Francy and I had found the pram at the dump. It was an old-fashioned one with a high undercarriage like those monster trucks favoured by big men with small dicks. We had taken it away on a Spit day and it hadn’t cost us a cent. Francy kept it on the porch because it was too wide to get in the door. When the new baby, Beth, was put in it, she looked like she was lying in a football field. I told Becker about the missing pram.

  “She might have gone over to the Schreier’s place, I suppose,” I said. “It’s the clos
est, and young Eddie sometimes helps John out in the shop. Francy’s not particularly friendly with Eddie’s mother, though. Carla Schreier’s a holy roller, and doesn’t approve of John or Francy.”

  “We’ll go over there, then,” he said.

  “Wait, Becker.” I had left off the “detective” part on purpose, because I wanted to know what his first name was. He knew mine, after all, and my hormones were way ahead of my reason. If he told me his name, I thought, it would be a step in the right direction. “Becker” was what Morrison called him, and it sounded mildly aggressive. He stopped in mid-turn.

  “Mark,” he said. “It’s Mark.” Hah. I tried not to smile in triumph.

  “Mark, listen, we have to do something about this dog. He’s got no water and his master’s dead, so he isn’t likely to get fed any time soon. Francy will have enough to worry about after we tell her.”

  Lug-nut was listening half-heartedly. He wasn’t a bad looking dog, really, when his ears weren’t plastered to his head. Part shepherd, part black lab, and something else. Something mongrelly. His eyes were yellow, which was unfortunate, but it wasn’t his fault.

  Detective Mark Becker looked at me, then at the dog. Lugnut knew we were talking about him and pressed his body further into the ground, achieving a kind of road-kill effect that was far from attractive. He whined again.

  “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” Becker’s eyes went to the hose attachment next to the porch. “We can fill his water bowl there, but unless his food is kept outside, he’ll have to stay hungry for a while longer. We can’t just break in.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s against the law, Polly.”

  “Oh, puhleeze. Francy’s my friend. I walk in all the time. I know where the food is. I’ll do it.”

  “She keep her door unlocked?”

  “This is the boonies. Nobody locks their doors here. You should know that, a country cop and all.”

  “I haven’t been here very long,” Becker said. “Where I come from, you don’t go outside to water your lawn without locking your door.” I didn’t bother to answer. City people. Geez.

  He walked towards Lug-nut and reached for the bowl. At once the dog sprang up from his abject pose and snarled, displaying an impressive set of fangs. Becker dropped the bowl and leaped back, swearing. From the cruiser came a highpitched giggle.

  “Morrison doesn’t like you much, does he?” I said.

  “The feeling is mutual. The dog’s not crazy about me either.”

  “Let me try. He knows me, sort of.” I moved forward, my hand out in the age-old Nervous-Human-Pretending-to-be-Friendly routine. “It’s okay, Luggy. Okay, boy. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” I talked to him the way I talked to Beth, Francy’s baby, who made me just as nervous as the dog did, for different reasons.

  Lug-nut bought it. He sniffed my hand, then licked it and wriggled over on his back, presenting his belly to be rubbed. It was like winning a lottery. If only men acted that way.

  Becker made a huffy, annoyed little sound.

  “Want me to rub your belly too?” I said without thinking. He laughed aloud. A cop with a sense of humour. Curiouser and curiouser.

  Lug-nut obviously wanted me to make up for his lonely years of never being touched, and I knew how he felt. But there was sad news to be delivered and I couldn’t sit around playing Her Majesty and the Corgis all day. I picked up the bowl and turned to Becker, but he had walked back to the cruiser to talk to Morrison.

  I filled the water bowl and put it within reach of Lugnut, who drank most of it in one schloop. Then I took the food bucket and walked in the front door. Becker didn’t follow.

  The hall stank, as usual. It was full of sweaty, mud-encrusted boots and oily overalls. I headed through to the kitchen where Lug-nut’s food was kept under the sink.

  There had been a “domestic”, I thought.

  Chairs were overturned, there were beer bottles on the table, some smashed on the floor. The fridge door was open. I moved to close it and my foot slipped in a patch of wet. I looked down and saw it wasn’t beer, it was blood.

  “Becker!” I yelled.

  Five

  It’s okay, Babe, if they hurt you,

  God doesn’t care how it’s done.

  God wants you there with a smile on your face

  making sure that your man’s having fun.

  —Shepherd’s Pie

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “Nope. Just got my tootsies in a little blood,” I said and felt my face drain like a bathtub. Damn. Keeling over in Mark Becker’s arms a second time just would not do. Especially since Morrison had shifted his butt out of the driver’s seat and had come pounding in behind Becker when I called, or rather, screamed for help.

  Morrison was really awfully big. How had he got on the force? Maybe he was regulation size when he was hired and ballooned afterwards. Some cops just get sucked into the Tim Horton’s vortex and never escape, I guess.

  I sat down on a kitchen chair and stuck my head between my knees, breathing deeply until the world stopped spinning. When I looked up, Morrison was standing there with a glass of water in his hand.

  “Shock, right?” he said. He was smiling kindly.

  “Thanks. Yup. Shock.” I schlooped the water in a fair imitation of Lug-nut. Becker was making a phone call.

  “… photographer, the works,” he was saying. When he hung up, his face was grim. “Judging from the amount of blood on the floor, I’d say Travers bought it right here,” he said. “You go wait in the car, Ms. Deacon. We don’t want to spoil the scene.”

  Oh, so it was back to the formal Ms. Deacon, was it? What did he think I was going to do? The dishes? Still, he had blood to examine, and I had a dog to feed and my friend to find. I figured, accurately as it turned out, that this would plunk the crime directly in Francy’s lap, and I knew she couldn’t have done it. I had to find her before they did.

  “Do you have any objection, Detective Becker, to my just getting a little dog food from that cupboard, or do you think that might constitute tampering with the evidence?”

  He thought seriously for a full minute. Gone was the sense of humour, if it had ever been there.

  “All right,” he said, finally. I picked up the feed bucket and walked towards the cupboard.

  “Wait,” he said. He removed his nightstick from its sheath and used it to open the cupboard door. The bag of kibble was open, with an empty margarine container lying on top. I looked at it closely before touching it.

  “No bloody fingerprints,” I said. “I think we can safely assume that the victim was not bludgeoned to death with Kibbles and Bits.” Morrison snorted, but Becker just glared at me. I filled the bucket and stalked out, trying desperately to remain dignified. I don’t think it worked. Truth was, I wanted to stay and watch them detect, but I was too proud to say so.

  Lug-nut greeted my arrival with so much exuberance that I had no choice but to sit down and bond with him. He wolfed the food and turned over on his back again, his tail wagging so hard his whole body jack-knifed in the dirt, sending up clouds of dust. I clung to him for comfort and thought about what to do.

  The Schreier’s place was only half a kilometre away to the east. It would take me ten minutes to walk there, less if I took the bush trail. If Francy was there, I could at least warn her that the police were coming. I had little doubt that she already knew what was going on, but Francy thought she was invincible. She led her life walking right on the edge of things. Without a friend there, this time, I was afraid that she would end up with more than bruises.

  Becker had ordered me to go wait in the car. I looked at the front door of the house, which I had slammed behind me. Morrison and Becker were probably sifting through the debris, oblivious to everything but the evidence—the evidence which might send Francy to jail.

  What had happened last night? I pictured John coming home from Kelso’s tavern, liquored-up and horny maybe, or just spoiling for a fight. I knew how Francy fel
t about having sex with her husband when he was drunk. It was a battle every time, which she sometimes lost. We had been over it more than a dozen times. I would urge her to get out, go to the Women’s Shelter in Sikwan, before it was too late. I urged her to get help, get counselling. She always said that John didn’t mean it, that he always begged for forgiveness afterwards, and she was content with that. He would never do it again, she said. She also said that if I reported John to the police, she would hate me forever. I believed her. Now, when the police were well and truly involved whether she liked it or not, I discovered that I wanted to protect her from them. Go figure. Somehow, I felt that the whole mess was my fault. I should have tried harder.

  Maybe, last night, the baby had been crying. Maybe the dog had been howling. Maybe something was said or done that made Francy lose her patience, her stoic “I can handle it” attitude. I imagined her grabbing the shotgun from its rack beside the kitchen door—I hadn’t even looked to see if it was there. The cops would, though.

  John kept it loaded, I knew that. It was his “protection”, he said. From what, he never bothered to explain. Maybe, like Spit’s gun, it was for the bears.

  Maybe Francy blasted a hole through John as he reeled towards her with a smashed beer bottle in his hand, his eyes piggy and insane. I could imagine it and I didn’t blame her one bit, if that’s what happened.

  What I couldn’t see was Francy loading the body into the truck and driving it to the dump. She didn’t drive, for one thing, and she would never leave Beth, for another. What I couldn’t see her doing was whacking Spit Morton over the head to cover her crime. Somebody had, I was certain, but it wasn’t Francy.

  Although it was obvious that someone had blasted a hole in John Travers in his own kitchen, I was sure that Francy had not dumped the body.

  “Hush, now,” I said to Lug-nut, who whined once and then sat looking at me as I tore off on the woods path to the Schreier’s place.

  There are black bears in them thar woods. The dump attracts them, and they are not as afraid of humans as they ought to be. I had never met one, but everybody has monsters and bears are mine. After my parents were killed when I was ten, I woke up screaming night after night, chased by bears. Black ones, grizzlies, polar bears, vaguely bear-like villains, and once, horribly, a sweet, murderous teddy-bear—the result of my well-meaning aunt’s gift of a fuzzy Paddington to comfort me at night.