Polly Deacon Mysteries 4-Book Bundle

by H. Mel Malton

  “You could make the person inside put their arm up in the air,” Bryan suggested, demonstrating. “The arm could be the neck and their hand could be the head part.”

  “How clever of you,” I said. “That’s exactly what some puppeteers do in plays.”

  “I know,” Bryan said. “I didn’t think it up by myself. It’s from the Dudley the Dragon website. There’s this picture of the Dudley costume with one side cut out so you can see the guy inside.”

  “Okay, so the Internet isn’t all bad,” I said.

  “No, it’s pretty neat, really. Although there’s a lot of garbage on it. You have to be careful.”

  “What sort of garbage?” I asked, although I had a pretty good idea. I may not have a TV, but I read the papers. I’ve heard about Internet porn and sick adults picking kids up online.

  “Oh, you know. Commercials and yucky romance stuff. My Mom has a census thing on our computer at home, but my Dad doesn’t.”

  “A censor thing, more likely,” I said. “So you can’t look at stuff for grown-ups.”

  “Yeah. It’s called Kidsafe. It’s a real pain. It blacks out words and pictures sometimes so you can’t see them, which makes you want to see them more, you know?”

  “I know exactly what you mean. So your Dad’s computer doesn’t have that?”

  “Nope. But he trusts me.”

  “He must.”

  Bryan made that sort of “tssk” sound that indicates annoyance, and I suppressed a chuckle. There was a pause as we both concentrated on our work.

  “You know, grown-ups think that kids are stupid,” he said after a while. “They streetproof us and warn us that there are sickos out there, and then they never let us go anywhere to show we can handle it. It’s like they give you a skateboard and then say you’re not allowed to ride it.”

  “Do you have a skateboard?”

  “Nope. My Mom says I’m not old enough to have an attitude, whatever that is.”

  “Bryan, I think you have an attitude already. A very adult one.”

  “So what’s an attitude?”

  “Look it up. Dictionary’s over there on that shelf. Starts with A-T-T.”

  “I have a dictionary function on my computer,” he said. “You just click on the word, and it tells you what it means.”

  “Uh-huh. I have a dictionary function in hard copy right there,” I said. He didn’t move.

  “I don’t read very well,” he said. I suppressed the urge to vent aloud about computer literacy having vanquished true literacy, the sort of fuddy-duddy crap that would have alienated my little friend for ever. After all, he was only eight. He was staggeringly sophisticated for eight, but still. I did not tell him that I could read fluently by the time I was four. What good would that have done? Anyway, when I was a kid my family didn’t have TV or computers. Books were it.

  He looked it up, and we read the entry together. It wasn’t an easy one, and I think he was bored by the time I’d explained what “settled behaviour” and “settled mode of thinking” was, but by that time Becker had arrived.

  The rest of our Kodak-moment afternoon was lovely. No more near-drownings, no more intrigue. Just the Becker boys and me and a couple of dogs. We went for a long walk along my favourite trail, the one that meanders through towering stands of maple and birch at the north end of George’s farm. The trees are lofty, and the leaves rustle in a musical way when the wind passes through them. The sun was out for good now, all the earlier clouds having been blown away by a pleasantly warm wind. We paused for a rest beside a little stream that burbles and sings through the forest and turns into a tiny version of the Oxblood Falls at the brow of the hill. The previous summer, I’d built a toy-sized water wheel on the stream, just before the cascade, where the water picks up speed a little and dances over the rocks.

  “How come you built it?” Bryan asked, crouching down to get a better look.

  “I wanted to see if it would work,” I said. “I have a book at home, a very old one called Amateur Handicrafts for a Curious Boy. I found the instructions in there.”

  Becker’s Curious Boy was fascinated. I promised to show him the book when we got back. “There are a lot of neat projects in there,” I said. “It was written way long ago when the winters were long, and they didn’t have Nintendo.” Bryan gave me a look, and I resolved to ease up on the Luddite stuff. He was interested, that was enough.

  We followed the path back to the cabin and grilled our hamburgers and hot dogs on the hibachi, electing to eat outside on the deck. The breeze kept the mosquitoes away, and the sun was deliciously warm. After he’d eaten, Bryan disappeared inside, saying he wanted to look at my Amateur Handicraft book. I followed him about twenty minutes later to get a couple of cold beers from the icebox and found him curled up on the futon, fast asleep, with Rosie and Luggy keeping him warm on either side. Boys, like puppies, are irresistible when they’re asleep. I patted all three of them gently on the head before going back to Becker.

  “Zonked out?” Becker said quietly as I handed him his beer. I nodded. “Thought so. He was wearing that glazed look. I hope the falls episode this morning doesn’t give him nightmares.”

  “He seemed pretty calm about it,” I said. “Although he did have some interesting questions about the afterlife, which I found rather difficult to answer. He has an interesting mind. Like his Dad.”

  “He’s way smarter than I am,” Becker said. “I think he’ll turn out to be another Bill Gates type, which would be good. He can keep his old Dad in the lifestyle to which he would like to become accustomed.”

  “A yacht, maybe? A country estate and lots of fast cars?”

  “I was thinking more of a retirement villa on the B.C. coast, but yeah, a yacht would be nice.” We sipped our beer in companionable silence, but I could feel him beside me, working up to something.

  “He likes you, you know,” Becker said.

  “I like him, too. Thank God.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, just that I was worried he’d hate me or he’d turn out to be a brat that I couldn’t stand. That would have been tricky.”

  “You thought my kid could’ve been a brat?” He was bristling.

  “Oh, Becker, relax. You know I’m not crazy about kids. I’ve dropped lots of hints in that department. At least, I thought I had, which was why I figured it took so long for you to introduce me to Bryan—which is fine, by the way. Totally understandable.”

  “Well, yeah, I did kind of wonder just how much you disliked kids, eh? But this kid is different. He’s mine. So I didn’t want to rush things.”

  “Anyway, that hurdle’s over with. We like each other.”

  “So I don’t have to keep you two in separate cages,” Becker said, taking a swig of his Kuskawa Cream Ale. “That’s a relief.” It was my turn to bristle.

  “I’m not big on cages,” I said.

  Becker laughed. “Aren’t we just tiptoeing around the issues?” he said. “Look, I know I don’t talk about my feelings very much—I’m not the new-age sensitive guy you should be going out with, I’m a big divorced cop with a kid who can’t figure out what you see in me.”

  I leered at him suggestively until he blushed. “That’s not fair,” he said. “There’s got to be more to it than that, Polly.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not used to serious talk coming from you, of all people. Scares the hell out of me.”

  “Me too.”

  “But Mark, this thing we have—of course it’s based on more than sex. It has to be, doesn’t it? I mean, neither of us is a teenager any more, but we’re both capable of cruising the bars for an occasional pillow buddy if that was all we wanted. It would be easier than stumbling around in boyfriend/girlfriendland like we’ve been doing.”

  “True.”

  “But as to what I see in you, I’ve been asking myself that for months. Actually, so have several other people.”

  He laughed, a little nervously, but persisted. “I can just imagi
ne who. What did you tell them?”

  “That you’re honest and decent and a bit of a hunk,” I said. He rolled his eyes but didn’t try to stop me talking. I guess he really wanted to know. I don’t think he was fishing for compliments or anything. Becker’s not like that. “What I didn’t tell them, because I’ve never tried to, you know, make a list until now, is this—” I thought for a moment. “You give me a lot of space, you’re not demanding and you have your own life. You’re not needy. Your sense of humour is just like mine. You can be bossy sometimes, but you make up for it by being—I have to say it—really great in bed.” Becker was so red now, he almost matched his hair. Well, he asked for it. “So,” I said, “I made you blush. Your turn, O big divorced cop-with-a-kid who’s being sensitive all of a sudden. Quick, before the spell wears off. What do you see in me, then? A flaky Luddite, I think you said once?”

  Becker moved in for the kill. Here it comes, I thought. This is where he tells me that he’s seeing someone else, but he’d really like to stay friends.

  “I think you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,” he said, speaking rather quickly. “Your independence drives me crazy, and I’ve always been attracted to women who need me, so go figure. You’re gorgeous and smart and funny and I don’t want to be your pillow buddy any more, I want to marry you.” He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt. “I wanted to give you this at our picnic, but a body got in the way, as usual,” he said. Keep talking, I thought fiercely at him. I can’t say a word.

  “Don’t say anything yet—not yes, not no, okay? I’ve been practising this, and I’ll lose my place. Just keep this—wear it if you want, or keep it for a while and think about it. I just want you to know where I stand. It won’t kill me if you just want to keep things going as they are, and I know I’ve kind of sprung this on you. So it’s your move, Polly.”

  The little box was damp. I guess he’d had it on him when he fished Vic Watson out of the Oxblood River. The ring was pretty, a thin gold band set with a modest diamond, simple and really very tasteful, if you like diamond rings. I gazed at it.

  “You look sad,” Becker said. “This is not good.”

  Polly Deacon, queen of the gentle rejection, struggled to say something honest that wouldn’t sound like a kick in the balls. It wasn’t easy.

  “Oh, golly,” was all I could manage. “Oh, the irony” would have been more accurate. I had just finished telling Becker that one of the things I really liked about him was that he gave me my space and wasn’t demanding or needy. Not that he hadn’t just given me a really easy out at the end of his proposal, if that’s what it was, but my problem was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to take it. My inner Spinster was running screaming for the hills, but a large part of me was saying “why the hell not, you idiot?” As well, my inner Cinderella was whining that he hadn’t said “I love you” and, ridiculously, that he hadn’t got down on one knee like they do in the movies.

  My silence was freaking Becker out. “Can we see if it fits, anyway?” he said softly. I nodded. The box had a label inside—“K. Johanssen”, the Sikwan jeweller whose card I had found in the back pocket of the jeans I was still wearing. That flash of jealously I’d felt earlier was replaced with a complicated mixture of doom and delight. With infinite care, he took the ring from its wet velvet nest and slipped it on The Finger. Perfect fit.

  I think that one of the reasons for the tradition of the ring is that it gives the proposer and the proposee something to concentrate on while they struggle with imminent heart failure. Our hands were shaking. Wedding images scrolled across my private movie screen; white dresses, organ music, the sweet proud face of Becker waiting at the altar, a bouquet of something expensive trembling in my hands. Quickly, though, the movie turned surreal. Lug-nut and Rosie bounded down the aisle and jumped up on the priest, Bryan as ring-bearer wore a face of thunder, and suddenly the church was full of goats and policemen.

  “I’m sorry, Mark,” I said. “I can’t possibly give you an answer right now. I’m floored. Confused. Flattered. Bewildered.”

  “Enough with the thesaurus,” Becker said. “I didn’t expect you to throw yourself into my arms yelling yes, yes.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “If you had, I would have called 911 to have them take you away.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “But you didn’t throw the ring in my face either, and that’s something.”

  “Did you really think I might do that?”

  “I had considered the possibility. But I didn’t want to just casually ask how you felt about marrying me, because I was afraid you wouldn’t take me seriously.” He poked my finger. “This is to show you that I’m serious, that’s all.” Then he gently removed the ring, put it back in its box and handed it to me. “Hold on to it, Polly. Think about it. I’ll know what your answer is when and if I see you wearing it.”

  “Way too symbolic,” I said. “Can’t I just tell you?”

  “Yup. That would be good. Can I kiss you now?”

  During the next few moments, I think Becker might have whispered that he loved me, but I’m not absolutely sure, and anyway, I’ve never believed in amor vincit omnia. More like amor screws everything up so it’s impossible to think straight.

  We heard little footsteps on the deck and disengaged ourselves. Bryan was standing there, his hair tousled and a look of distress on his face.

  “Ms. Deacon,” he said, “your puppy just pooped on your bed.”

  Ten

  Do you like eating at your meeting? Call our deli section for a tray of goodies to make your business get-togethers go with a bang!

  —An ad in the Laingford Gazette

  Duke Pitblado’s real estate office was housed in a Victorian mansion in the west end of Laingford, overlooking Lake Kimowan and the town girly bar, Kelso’s. The mascot focus-group was scheduled to meet in Duke’s boardroom at 6 p.m., but I was early, as the hired help is expected to be. I had my drawings with me, rolled up in a mailing tube, and I’d requested one of those flip-chart things so I could pretend that I was making a presentation to a multi-national executive assembly.

  The door of Pitblado Kuskawa Enterprises was locked, so I pressed the buzzer and waited, sweating in the July heat. I wore a mildly businesslike get-up, a biscuit coloured linen jacket and matching walking shorts that a friend had given me “in case you ever get a real job.” Beneath the jacket and red silk tank-top, Becker’s ring hung on a thin gold chain. I had tried it on again after he left, but my mind was still too scrambled to do more than stare at it and marvel at how a little bit of gold and rock could represent such a huge fork in my personal road. The chain was long enough that the ring dangled well below the cleavage line. I didn’t want anybody asking about it. Actually, I didn’t want anybody knowing about it at all. At least not for a while. I knew, though, that I would blurt it out to George or Susan fairly soon. I am, as Susan has said many a time, an open book.

  My buzz was answered by a precise female voice.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Polly Deacon here for the Kountry Pantree meeting,” I said, sounding as official as I could. Obviously, if you wanted to buy Kuskawa real estate from Duke, you had to have an appointment. No “just browsing” here, kiddies.

  “Oh, yes,” the disembodied voice said. “Please come up.” Another buzz followed, and I pulled the door open and stepped inside. Immediately, goosebumps appeared on my arms, and I tugged down the sleeves of the jacket, which I’d rolled up. It was freezing in there. I’m not a big fan of air conditioning to begin with, but this was ridiculous. Talk about conspicuous consumption. Shivering, I climbed the thickly carpeted stairs to the second floor, following the discreet brass signs. Antique prints of old Kuskawa homes studded the walls, sepia tinted and beautifully framed. Someone had done an exquisite job with the restoration of the interior. The staircase was one long, beautiful sweeping curve, with finials and spindles—polished oak, maybe—heavy and luxurious. The wallpaper w
as period and the woodwork around the windows glowed in the early evening light. It occurred to me that if I had been entering this building in the 1800s, I would probably be using the back stairs, the servants’ entrance. Know thy place, an inner voice said to me. There is big, old money here.

  At the top of the stairs, a receptionist behind a vast, polished desk greeted me with a cool smile. She was dressed for mid-autumn, in a boiled wool cardigan (Chanel, probably) and discreet pearls at neck and ears. She wasn’t much older than I was, but she exuded sophistication and poise. Her ash-blonde hair was swept artfully back into a thing I think they call a chignon.

  “Ms. Deacon? You’re early,” she said.

  “Sorry, it’s a habit I have. I should have brought a sweater, though. You could catch cold in here.”

  “I know,” she said, thawing suddenly and dimpling at the cheeks. “It’s Arctic, isn’t it?” She pronounced it “Ardic” and slipped a notch or two on the social scale. I liked her better for it. Her face was somehow familiar, and we exchanged that “do I know you from somewhere” look.

  “Wait—you’re Polly, aren’t you?” she said. “Polly from drama?”

  “Linda? Linda Stewart! Well, long time no see!” I said. Linda and I had been in the same Grade Nine drama class at Laingford High. We hadn’t known each other very well, but we’d played opposite one another in some obscure play that went to the Sears Drama Festival and won an award. We’d shared a room in Peterborough, where the festival was held, and gotten drunk on apple wine together. At least, I thought it was apple wine. It might have been lemon gin. We’d puked our guts out, anyway, both of us. It was a long time ago. I had lost touch with all but a very few of my high-school contemporaries.

  “Still drinking lemon gin?” she said, confirming the evil beverage and bonding us instantly in that peculiar high school reunion kind of way.

  “Well, not as such. I seem to recall lemon gin being decidedly dangerous.”

  “I’ll say,” Linda said. She came out from behind her elegant desk and hugged me.