Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by H. Mel Malton

  “Well?” I said. “I don’t want to get slugged.”

  “I know,” he said. “Too bad about the workboots.”

  “I left my pumps at home.” I tried to fluff out my hair. There isn’t much to fluff.

  “You got any lipstick?”

  I felt like I was about to go undercover. This was getting ridiculous.

  “I’ll wet my lips at the door and keep my mouth open. Maybe giggle a bit. What do you think?”

  “Couldn’t hurt,” he said and eased himself out of the cab.

  “Stay, Luggy,” I said to the dog. “If anybody tries to break in, bite their hands off.” Not that anybody would. Lug-nut was ugly and looked mean. He licked my face, then settled down. I don’t know how I ever managed without a dog before. They make you feel warm and fuzzy all day long.

  There was a cover charge, and Morrison paid it. I just stood next to him and simpered, which earned me a peculiar look from the guy at the door, who stamped our hands with a rubber stamp and said “Have a good time” in the kind of tone that meant we probably wouldn’t.

  As we headed into the murk, Morrison muttered “you don’t have to act like a moron, for Chrissakes. We’re not walking into a pit of rattlers.”

  We walked straight into a pit of rattlers.

  Maybe we should have paid more attention to the cluster of big, black motorcycles parked near the door. There were bikers everywhere. Leather-wrapped, either bearded or Nazishorn, rings attached to places I’ve only seen on livestock and oozing a negative aura which would make any New-Ager reach for his or her crystal in self-defence. Some of these guys made Morrison look like Michael Jackson.

  I peered into the smoky gloom, trying to catch a glimpse of Becker. The sooner we found him, the sooner we could get out of there. I saw him at the end of a bar, talking to a ferrety man with glasses and a flat cap. I tugged Morrison’s arm and pointed.

  “He’s over there,” I whispered, which was dumb, considering that the music was so loud it was altering my heartbeat. Still, Morrison got the picture and we started moving.

  “Hey, honey. Wanna dance?” Someone grabbed my arm and I almost screamed. I turned to see who it was. He was shorter than me, with a grey beard which came down to his chest. From his right ear dangled an earring in the shape of a skull, and his grin revealed a set of well-kept teeth, which looked sharp.

  “Uh, no, thank you,” I said, pitching my voice to sound as much like a bar-bimbo as I could manage. “Me and my brother here are looking for our cousin Marky who’s just got outta jail.”

  I heard a snort from Morrison.

  The biker’s grin faded. “Oh. Too bad. My name’s Grub, eh? Just asking. Hope you find him. Have a nice evening.” He grinned again and moved away. I stared after him in astonishment. This was a biker dude? Skull and leather and all? Have a nice evening?

  We walked over to Becker.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he said when he saw me. It seemed to be a customary greeting with him. He’d probably still be saying that when we both met again on the banks of the Styx.

  “Hi, Becker. Nice to see you, too. How’s your eye?” He just glared at me, so I turned away from him and leaned over the bar to get the attention of the bartender, who had so many tattoos on his arms I thought he was wearing a denim shirt, until he got close.

  “I just love your arms,” I said, quite sincerely. They were fascinating. Snakes and daggers and Japanese Samurai warriors warring with hearts and flowers and the names of a dozen women. He smiled.

  “I guess everybody says that, right?” I said.

  “Not many women do,” he said. “Mostly they look for names that aren’t theirs. What can I get you?”

  “Two draft, please.” I forked over a five and got more change than I expected, which I left on the bar. I’m nobody’s fool. I handed one of the glasses to Morrison, who nodded his thanks, then I turned back to Becker.

  “How’s it going?” I said, casually. The ferrety man had melted into the crowd and Becker was fuming. Before he could reply, the music suddenly cut out and somebody announced the floor show. The lights on the postage-stamp sized stage flared up and the announcer howled “Heeeere’s Candy!”

  Candy strutted onstage dressed in black leather and chains, possibly a last-minute change in the program due to the guests of honour, who were currently hooting and breaking glasses in the front row.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” Becker said to me. He turned to Morrison. “Why the hell did you bring her in here? Are you out of your mind?”

  “She has something for you. I didn’t think it could wait, seeing why you’re here and everything.”

  Candy was doing some very interesting gymnastics and had appropriated a beer-bottle from one of the bikers. I stopped looking.

  “What couldn’t wait until tomorrow? I was just getting some information from Jed Sheeney that could have wrapped that money-issue right up.”

  There were shouts from the front table and I glanced over at the stage just in time to see the beer bottle disappear. I felt like throwing up.

  “Isn’t that illegal, you guys? I mean, geez,” I said and knocked back my draft, which tasted like weasel piss.

  Morrison moved over, so that my view of the stage was blocked. I can’t say I minded much.

  “Yeah, Ms. Deacon, it is illegal. Like some other things,” Becker said, “but there’s no point trying to do anything about it. Know what I mean? Strippers keep these guys off the street, where they could do real harm. What’s so urgent? You still can’t keep out of it, eh?” He moved in a little and I stood my ground, reached into my pocket and brought out the money, which I held out to him. It occurred to me that, while Morrison had been worried about being seen to accept money in the Tim Horton’s, Becker had no such compunction about it in Kelso’s. He grabbed it.

  “What’s this?” he said, taking off the rubber band and counting it.

  “It’s John’s four hundred bucks,” I said. “The moneyissue you wanted to tie up. I found it in a bag of dog food I took from Travers’ kitchen when I picked up Lug-nut. Morrison said you were here trying to find out who John owed money to, and we thought it would help if you actually had it.”

  He was turning it over and over in his hands, then he stashed it away in his leather jacket. It was a nice jacket. Made him look just like one of the boys.

  “When did you say you found it?” he said and caught my eyes and held them. It wasn’t a look that had anything to do with his question. I didn’t know what he was asking, but I felt a vague fluttering of something that could have been optimism.

  “I found it this morning, Mark,” I said, “just before I went over to give it to Francy.” I had a sudden flash of him naked. Ouch. Then it was juxtaposed with the memory of Fancy, hanged. I flinched. He was staring into me, and I suddenly realized he was wondering if I was high. The questioning glance had nothing to do with sex. It was that other thing. He would always wonder that, I decided. No matter where we met, no matter what the circumstances, he would always wonder.

  “You found it before you found her, you mean,” he said. “And you didn’t tell us until now.”

  “I meant to tell you, but I kind of forgot,” I said. Okay, so I’m sorry for trying to hit you for being a dink, I didn’t say.

  “Good timing,” he said and turned toward the stage and Candy.

  “I was kind of freaked out, Becker,” I said.

  He didn’t look at me.

  “I did find it just before I went over and found her hanging from a rafter in the kitchen,” I added. He still didn’t take his eyes from the stage. Boy, was I ever wasting my time. Nothing makes a woman feel more alone than the sight of a man watching a stripper. “I found it just before I phoned in a bomb threat and held up the convenience store in Cedar Falls.” Nothing. The police officer was fantasizing about being a beer-bottle, maybe. Illegal is as illegal does. I turned to Morrison.

  “Something tells me this could have waited until tomorrow,�
�� I said and found that my throat was a bit tight. He nodded. The ferrety man had reappeared from the washroom area and was making his way towards Becker. Becker glanced back at me for the briefest of moments, then pushed away from the bar and moved towards him.

  On our way out, Grub reappeared in front of me.

  “Leaving so soon?” he said. “You find your cousin?”

  “Yeah, we did,” I said, doing my bimbo-impression again. “He’s the same asshole he always was. Jail didn’t change him none.”

  “It never does,” Grub said. “Hey, if you ever need any accounting done, though, here’s my card.” He handed me a square of cardboard. “Miles Gruber, Chartered Accountant,” it said, and gave an address in Hamilton.

  “You’re an accountant?”

  “Yup. The bike’s a hobby, eh? Me and the boys come up here to get away. So, like, if you ever need your taxes done or anything, just give me a call. Take care, now.” Grub patted my arm affectionately and walked away, the chains on his boots clanking like Marley’s ghost.

  Morrison and I grabbed each other and ran, giggling like schoolkids, the whole way out to the parking lot.

  Twenty-Six

  Were all trying to harness faith,

  the sun you gotta worship

  to be warmed by.

  —Shepherd’s Pie

  After I dropped Morrison off at the police station, I headed home. The Kelso’s experience had left me feeling a bit queasy, partly from the bad draft, partly from Becker’s coldness, but mostly from Candy and the beer bottle. On top of the murders, it was just too much. I had read about stuff like that from time to time, but I’d always figured it was the result of some fiction-writer’s diseased imagination—something to say “eeew, gross” about and then turn the page. There would be no page-turning for Candy, though, and thinking about her and how she got to where she was, doing what she was doing, made me feel rotten. And helpless. What could I do when even the police said there’s no point in trying?

  I entertained a fantasy about going to Kelso’s the next morning, finding the stripper and having a good heart-to-heart with her, then helping her to a new life feeding goats, eating healthy foods and living in George’s house. Fat chance. She’d just tell me to piss off and mind my own business, which would be about what I deserved. The bucolic life I’m so fond of touting as the answer to everything isn’t the answer at all for most people. Candy and other people like her, would probably choose beer bottles and bikers over goat poop any day.

  When I got back to George’s place, his town car, an elderly Toyota, was gone, so I figured he was at Susan’s again. Poe was half-asleep on his shelf and croaked rudely at me. I left a note for George on his kitchen table telling him I’d fed the cats, which I proceeded to do. At least, I put food in their bowl, which usually brought them running, but there was no sign of them. Then I went down to the barn to check on the goats before going home.

  They were all settled in for the night and I found the cats curled up in a ridiculously photogenic bundle with the new kids, all warm and toasty next to Erma Bombeck.

  “From sleaze to saccharine in one fell swoop,” I said, but the sight did actually make me feel a bit better. Erma bleated at me and I bleated back, then turned out the light.

  I smoked a little dope when I got home, but didn’t have the heart to work on the puppet. A friend of mine had died, I’d been stupid about a man (again) and rather than fill me with creative energy, as a toke usually did, it just made me more depressed. What was the point, anyway? The puppet would get sold at the Artists’ Consignment Depot, I’d take the money and live on it for a while, and then have to make another one, and so on. What big hairy difference did it make to the world? Goats got born, goats died, but at least they made milk. People got born. Sometimes they got beaten up by people they loved, sometimes they danced on tables and did unspeakable things with beer bottles to entertain other people, but they all died too, sooner or later. There just didn’t seem a point to anything.

  I thought about praying, but I’ve never been able to scrape even a tiny hint of belief together about a supreme being. God has always seemed to me to be a huge, powerful mess of wishful thinking. I knew this because the only time I ever thought about it was when I needed comforting, and the comfort never, ever materialized, no matter how hard I prayed.

  My dead parents had been serious Catholics, and my early years were steeped in religion, but even though I was outwardly as devout as I was expected to be, I had secretly been sure that nobody was listening.

  They were killed in an automobile accident on their way to visit me at summer camp. It was parents’ night and I was the master of ceremonies. When they didn’t show up, I still went onstage. I did my bit, fuelled by an incredible anger. There would be excuses later, of course. A religious meeting or something they had forgotten about—too important to miss. It had happened before. It never occurred to me that something might have happened to them. Children assume the worst, and for me, the worst wasn’t death, it was indifference.

  The news came during the juice and cookies party afterwards. The camp chaplain, a boisterous, overly friendly man called Father Bob, deftly cut me out like a slice of cake from the group of parents I was being praised by. He annoyed me, and I was rude to him, the way a big-headed ten-year-old who’s been told she’s hot stuff tends to be.

  “I need to talk to you, dear,” he said.

  “What? Can’t it wait? I’m busy.” The words ring in my head still. It’s one of those bad moments in life that grow more horrific with age and will not fade no matter how hard one tries to forget. The adults who had been praising my performance went suddenly silent, shocked at my behaviour. The sweetness turned in my mouth, as if I’d bitten into a chocolate and found it full of dust. Father Bob drew me away gently and told me my parents were dead. It was like a punishment. If I hadn’t been rude, my parents would be okay.

  After that, I went to live with my Aunt Susan in Laingford. Susan was, and still is, an agnostic. She was beside me at the funeral mass (which was incredibly long), and later she told me that, although she was perfectly willing to discuss God and religion if I wanted to, she would not be accompanying me to church again. That suited me just fine. After the initial numbness had worn off, I had experimented with prayer, probing my customary lack of faith like a sore tooth, and found that nothing had changed. There was still nobody listening, and nobody left to insist that there was.

  But early training stays with you. In times of trouble, I still find myself probing that empty place in my brain where Christians promise divine comfort is.

  Sometimes I feel like an Icarus lost in a flock of twentieth century frequent flyers. They all buy their tickets and whizz off to the tropics while I’m still stuck on the ground gluing chicken feathers to my arms.

  That search for meaning continues, of course, and up until the day I found Francy hanging in the kitchen, I was content to putter along believing implicitly in the goodness of humankind, the healing power of the earth and my own efforts to leave as small an ecological footprint as possible. That had been enough.

  However, after two murders awfully close to home, and after seeing Candy onstage at Kelso’s, it struck me that composting, making herbal tea and living the simple life of a craftsperson was absolutely pathetic.

  I sat at my worktable and cried. Lug-nut plunked his head in my lap in that endearing way dogs have of trying to help, and I thought about what to do. Become a social worker? Start counselling battered women? Go to cop college and become a caped avenger with a gun? Start a farming co-op for exstrippers? Write a self-help book for New-Age artists with step-by-step instructions for changing the world? Hang myself? Or, dammit, find out who killed John and Francy and erase them from the planet?

  My parents were killed by a drunk driver. I wanted to kill him back, for the longest time. Then I met him when he got out of jail. I was fourteen, and he got in touch with Susan and said he wanted to see me. She said it was entirely up to me. I
said okay, because I’d never seen him and I wanted a face to go with my hatred.

  We met in Susan’s front room, both sitting on the edges of our chairs, fragile as porcelain. He was thin and pale, like a root vegetable, and he wept when he saw me, the tears seeping out the corners of his eyes and dripping off his unlovely chin. He wanted to give me money. (I didn’t take it. Now, I would. Then, I couldn’t.) His hands were damp and they trembled. He smelled of fear and sweat. He had little white yuckies in the corners of his mouth. He made me feel sick, but I stopped hating him. He didn’t seem to be worth the trouble. Then he asked me to forgive him.

  I used to think forgiveness was a big mystery, something you could only understand if you had been touched by God, which I hadn’t. The real Christians I know (as opposed to the bogus ones) speak of it with a kind of wonder. Forgiveness is tangled up in reams of theological wool, though. God forgives everyone everything because of his divinity, and those who believe in him look for forgiveness; they need it, beg for it, even. What’s more, they seem to get it. Non-Christians (at least this one) sometimes shy away from the concept because of all the trappings. But after meeting the man who schmucked my parents to a bloody pulp because he was driving pie-eyed, I discovered that forgiveness is actually a piece of cake. You just do it. You say “Okay, I forgive you,” and then you forget it. That’s what I did.

  So, finding John’s killer, and Francy’s (if it was the same person, which was likely) and killing them back, was out. I suppose I used up all the revenge-juice in my body the last time, and there was none left. Finding the killer and forgiving him or her was an idea that stopped my tears and prompted me to light up another joint.

  First of all, why should I forgive them? I mean, why me? Francy and John weren’t mine. Francy was my friend, that’s true, but I didn’t own her the way I had, in a sense, owned my parents.

  If someone breaks a teacup, which is yours, you can say “Oh, that’s okay. It doesn’t matter,” and it doesn’t any more. But that’s a teacup, not a person. Forgiving that man for killing my parents was something I gave him because he needed it, and so did I. I owned my anger, he owned his remorse. Together, we gave them up, or gave them away, which was good.