I said, “What was she like?”
“I don’t know what she was like then. He kept Marcia under wraps.”
“You never met her?”
Fred shook his head reluctantly. “Not then. He didn’t introduce her. She never come into the clubhouse.”
“So you didn’t know who she was, anything about her?”
“I knew she was called Marcia, that she come out of Victoria, and she married Frank Harkness in Wellington.” He cocked his head. “You think that more than one broad called Marcia married guys called Frank Harkness in Wellington?”
“No. It sounds like you’ve identified her.”
“So how’s about it? You satisfied I know what I’m saying?”
One thing still puzzled me. I said, “Tell me about this Harkness-Turko connection. How does that tie in?”
“Frank Harkness’s name was really Frank Turko. I told you, he was on the lam from stateside, changed his name when he crossed the border, lots of guys done that.”
“Let’s get this straight. You know where Marcia is now, and you can take me to her?”
“Correct. She’s living in a place, you can be there in about four hours.” His sly look returned. “How much is this reward, anyway?”
“A few hundred bucks,” I said, snatching a figure out of the blue.
Fred rolled his eyes. “You shitting me?” he mocked. “This is some kind of inheritance deal, got to be. Either Frank’s money is looking for her, or her family’s.”
“How do you know her family has money?”
“I don’t. But it’s a fair guess. I told you. Frank was interested in class acts. Girls who wore fancy clothes, dressed nice, went to college and all like that.”
“Frank had money too?”
Fred laughed. “He had a licence to print money. Bought it off a guy that lived in Ladysmith. It was a recipe for brewing speed.”
“Speed?”
“That’s right. Speed. And mda. Frank learned how to make it. That’s how the club earned its money. We was dealing acid, grass, heroin, meth. You name it. We had it all.”
“What happened to Frank Harkness?”
Fred slid the commando dagger back into its sheath and said impatiently, “I said enough already. I ain’t saying no more until I get cash laid on me. You check with the guy who’s pulling your wires, then report back with some serious coin.”
“Fair enough.”
“I want 5,000 bucks,” Fred said, standing up and leaning his weight on the table as he shuffled sideways out of the booth.
I said, “Don’t aim too high. Five thousand is a lot of money.”
“Let me talk to the Man myself, maybe I’ll cut you in out of my piece.”
“That’s not the way I work.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m flexible, maybe you should be. Think about it.” He nodded toward the marina. “I live on a boat with my old lady. You want me, come find me.”
I said, “Wait a minute, I need to ask you one more thing. The woman I’m interested in had an identifying mark on one arm.”
“I know she did,” Fred said. “A rose tattoo, up on her right shoulder. Frank told us about it. The rose was put on by a guy in Nanaimo.”
I watched Fred walk away. The old biker had a limp and was much shorter than he’d appeared when sitting down. He was probably about 50 — perhaps younger. But with his seamed face, greying hair and limping stride he looked a lot older. He’d lived fast but hadn’t died young. The hard life had caught up with Fred Eade.
≈ ≈ ≈
The Wharfinger’s office was a small wooden building at the end of a pier. Inside, ship models stood on window sills, pictures of sailing vessels covered the walls. A telescope in a corner was aimed at Spinnakers pub. The wharfinger sat in a captain’s chair, watching the scene outside his window. When I entered, he spun around and grinned at me. A plastic sign on his desk told me that this was Captain Thomas Bloggs.
“Nice day, ain’t it?” Captain Bloggs said cheerfully. “What can I do for you?”
He was an elderly, bearded man with skin like old leather. He wore a uniform cap and, in spite of the warm weather, a thick pea jacket with brass buttons. He would have looked right at home on the deck of a three-master.
I produced a photograph of Harry Cuncliffe Jr. and showed it to him. “Ever see this man around the marina, Captain?”
The wharfinger studied the photograph and nodded. “Who are you, mister, and what’s your business?”
“Silas Seaweed. I’m a city cop,” I said, giving him my card.
Captain Bloggs settled back on his chair. “Sure. I knew Harry, he was a favourite of mine. Dr. Cuncliffe’s house is on Dallas Road, only a few blocks away from here. The boy was crazy about boats, used to hang around my wharf all the time. Goddam shame, him being murdered.” The captain raised his bushy eyebrows. “What’s your interest, Sergeant?”
“It’s a confidential matter, Captain. I can’t say much. Be obliged if you’d keep this under your hat.”
Irritation reddened the old man’s face, but before he could speak I added, “No offence, but we don’t want this stirred up, out of respect for the boy’s father.”
Mollified, the wharfinger said, “I saw Fred Eade just now. You were talking with him in the café. You ask him about Harry?”
Evidently, not much went on around the marina that escaped the old man’s eye. I said, “Did Harry know Fred Eade?”
A nerve twitched in the captain’s face and his eyes flicked toward the south end of the marina. “Everybody knows Fred Eade.” He spoke with disgust. “Fred’s been living on my marina for years. Always behind paying his mooring fees. Complains he’s broke, but he can find money for booze easy enough. I ought to run him off, but if I did, where would he go?” He sighed and added, “But you were asking about Harry.”
I said, “A boy of Cuncliffe’s background, I’d expect him to spend his time around the Royal Victoria Yacht Club.”
“Harry was interested in sailboats, sure, and he did a bit of racing out of the yacht club, but he loved commercial boats. Worked summers on fish packers and suchlike, sailing up the coast to Alaska. Lots of workboat skippers gave Harry work.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a loud crash outside. A winch cable had broken and a pallet-load of stores had dropped onto the wharf alongside the rusty-looking ship that I had noticed earlier. Three men were surveying the damage.
The old seaman narrowed his eyes. “Greenhorns playing at sailors!” he snapped. “That ship’s falling apart. They think they’re gonna take that wreck to Guatemala. Some hopes! It’ll either founder in the first gale or they’ll pile her up on a lee shore.”
“What’s going on?”
He pointed at the ship. “That’s an Atlantic trawler, an old rustbucket. Been laid up in St. John’s for years. Engine’s worn out and you’ve just seen how good the rigging is. Some guy bought it, thought he’d use it as a crab boat here. Anyway, he went broke. Now she’s been bought by a bunch of dreamers. They’re aiming to ship out on some get-rich-quick scheme.” The wharfinger turned away from the window. “You got any new leads on this Cuncliffe case?”
“What do you mean?”
“Everybody in town knows that Indian kid wasn’t acting on his own. He was just the driver. The guy that pulled the trigger is still running loose.”
“The case is still open,” I said.
“I’ve got a theory on it.” The old man crinkled his forehead.
I waited.
“I figure Harry was murdered by somebody who knew him.” The old man leaned forward. “Makes sense, don’t it? Harry’s out there at Calvert Hunt’s mansion. He hears or sees something suspicious and goes to investigate. Finds a burglar lifting the paintings off the walls and recognizes him.” The old man stopped speaking to gauge my reaction.
I nodded encouragement.
“It’s the only thing that adds up,” he said. “The paintings, what are they worth, a few hundred? Not worth a killing.
Not unless the robber is recognized and panics. He knows he’s not going to get away with it so he shoots first and thinks second.” His glance drifted toward the live-aboard boats and he added slyly, “Perhaps you don’t need to look too far for a suspect, eh?”
I stifled a grin and said, “That’s a possibility. Thanks for sharing your ideas.”
“Glad to help,” said the captain. Then he was seized by another idea. “One thing I don’t understand. What was young Harry doing at Calvert Hunt’s place in the first place?”
“Calvert Hunt and Dr. Cuncliffe are close friends. Family friends. Harry spent a lot of time there, swimming in their pool, playing tennis.”
The captain nodded wisely.
I said, “The summer that Harry was murdered. Did he work on boats as usual?”
The old man pushed his cheek out with his tongue and wrinkled his nose, thinking. “I believe he did. I wouldn’t swear to it, but he probably crewed with Taffy Jones.”
“Where can I find Jones?”
“Taffy’s fishing up at Adams River, won’t be back for a few weeks.” The captain sighed. “Goddam shame, ain’t it, the way things turn out. The world’s full of deadbeats like Fred Eade who just go on and on, creating misery. A nice feller like Harry dies young. It don’t make no sense to me.”
The wharfinger rose ponderously and fastened the buttons of his jacket. “I better get down there, see if those dreamers damaged my dock.”
≈ ≈ ≈
A stiff onshore breeze was blowing when I parked my Chevy outside Dr. Cuncliffe’s house on Dallas Road. It was a ’50s cedar-and-brick bungalow with a steeply pitched roof, built around three sides of a cement patio. I rang the doorbell, turned my back on the house and watched a couple of sailboats, heeled over to their gunnels, as they raced upwind along Juan de Fuca Strait. Across Dallas Road, a broad expanse of parkland extended to steep cliffs. Dense thickets of low bushes and trees dotted the park; mallard ducks floated on a pond. Hikers strode along the trail at the edge of sandstone cliffs. A big freighter, inward bound from Asia, was picking up a pilot. The ferry from Port Angeles was rounding Ogden Point.
A minute later Dr. Cuncliffe appeared from the backyard. He gave me a cheery smile and said, “I’ve been messing about in my greenhouse, don’t always hear the bell. Been waiting long?”
“Just got here.”
Dr. Cuncliffe looked out to sea. “I hope those sailors are wearing survival suits. That westerly must be blowing over an icefield,” he said with an exaggerated shiver.
He opened the front door and invited me in. Passing him in the hallway I caught a whiff of his breath, pungent with alcohol. We went into the front living room. He grinned at me and said, “I’ve already started. What’s your poison?”
“Scotch.”
He congratulated me on my taste, waved his hand toward a chair and busied himself with the bottles and glasses set out on a side table. Through the French windows that opened onto the front patio I heard a murmur of voices as two men walked past the house with their heads together.
Dr. Cuncliffe came up behind me, his footfalls soft on the carpet, and gave me my drink. We clinked glasses. After tasting it I tilted my head appreciatively. It was Glenlivet.
Dr. Cuncliffe gazed out across the strait toward the distant Olympic snowcaps and said, “It’s a big country out there. Plenty of room to hide in.”
Moving slowly and somewhat erratically, Dr. Cuncliffe crossed the room again and sat in a leather club chair. I knew what he wanted to say, and I also knew that he wasn’t quite ready to say it yet, so I took a chance and said quietly, “You’re Calvert Hunt’s doctor. Is Charles Service your patient as well?”
“Not really, although Charlie consults me from time to time. Why do you ask?”
“I’m curious to know how long Charles Service has been addicted to cocaine is all.”
Dr. Cuncliffe’s face closed up in thought. He shrugged and said, “Coke? Charles has been on the stuff for a few years now. Off and on, that is. Sometimes he gets into a 12-step program and stays clear of it for a while, but he always goes back. A smart fellow like that, I’m damned if I can understand it.”
So my guess was right, but I didn’t feel good about it. How many times have I sat with people, smiling and lying, tricking them into telling me the truth?
Dr. Cuncliffe screwed up his eyes and mouth in concentration and went on. “Damn shame. Charles is a decent sort. God only knows what possessed him to dabble with the stuff in the first place. Bloody foolishness. When I think what it must have cost him, over the years … ”
Dr. Cuncliffe looked at his glass and discovered that it was empty. Moving with difficulty, he got up and went unsteadily to the side table for a refill. Speaking over his shoulder, his voice half muffled, he said, “The reason I called you. It’s about my boy, Harry.”
He turned toward me and said awkwardly, “I don’t know how to put this, but the thing is, I’ve never been satisfied. About Harry’s killing, I mean. The real reason for it. What I wanted to ask you, Silas, as a favour … Since you’re working on that Marcia Hunt thing, maybe you could keep your eyes and ears open … ”
His voice trailed off. He was quite drunk. He went to a sideboard, pulled open a drawer and took out an unframed four-by-six photograph. “Here,” he said. “You can keep this.”
It was a photograph of Harry. I turned it over. A pencilled caption read: “Harry Cuncliffe. 1978–2000.”
Sudden drops of moisture glistened in Dr. Cuncliffe’s eyes. He brushed his face with the back of a hand and said, “Sorry. Unforgivable. I’m getting maudlin in my old age, but he was my only son. There’s just me now.”
I felt like I was mainlining on wretchedness.
He said, “I asked you a few days ago if you thought Jimmy Scow had killed my boy. Remember?”
“Yes, and I remember the answer I gave you. It was no.”
“Were you just guessing, or do you have evidence?”
“Let me put it this way. The evidence against Scow was tainted.”
“I know it was, because I attended every day of Scow’s trial. I was hoping that the prospect of a jail sentence would soften Scow up. Encourage him to rat on his accomplices.”
I didn’t say anything.
Dr. Cuncliffe sat down and said gamely, “How’s your tipple? Help yourself, old boy. I’m a bit legless, myself.”
“We’ll find him, Doctor. Find the guy who killed your son, and that’s a promise,” I said. I meant every word, but by then I was thinking with my heart instead of my head.
I had another Glenlivet and then left him to his desolation.
CHAPTER FIVE
Imet Chief Alphonse in the Warrior band office. Smoke wisped from the briar pipe hanging between his front teeth. He looked at the raindrops running down his windowpanes and said cryptically, “First Woman is crying and bringing rain to our lands. Pretty soon, First Son will bring the west wind, dry the tears of his mother if she weeps too long.”
That was fine with me.
The chief burned more tobacco and continued solemnly, “George Putty is getting the heebie-jeebies from too much drinking. We’ve got to do something before he runs away.”
“Gregarious George?” I said. “What’s George been up to this time?”
“Passing out in the street, panhandling. Making a nuisance of himself at Gottlieb’s Trading Post. It’s pathetic. George Putty is a Black Tamahnous. That man was respected from Seabeck to Fairbanks at one time. Now he’s a disgrace. Never goes home, doesn’t talk to his family.” The chief sighed and added, “Little Sam thinks that Little Earths have taken George’s soul.”
“I suppose Little Sam wants to do some medicine.”
“Yes. Little Sam said he’d throw bones in the air and do Earth Dwarf Song. The very mention of bone throwing and Little Earth conjuring scared George out of his wits.”
“Well, drinking, Chief. I drink myself.”
“Not like George Putty. Getting drunk is all he
does now.”
“I could lock him up long enough to dry him out, but that won’t correct George’s underlying problem.”
“Little Sam and me, we know what George’s underlying problem is,” the chief said dryly. “I want you to think about it, Silas. George Putty has a lot of respect for you.”
“I wish Jimmy Scow had respect for me as well,” I said. “He seems to think I’m a halfwit.”
“Little Jimmy Scow,” Chief Alphonse repeated thoughtfully. “Now there’s a name.”
I waited. The chief added, “He’s spending a lot of time Canoe Cove way, diving into the sea.”
“Wolf ritual?”
“Wolf ritual is right.” Chief Alphonse took the pipe out of his mouth and looked at it. He put it back in his mouth again, took a few puffs and said, “I’ll tell you this, though. I knew Jimmy Scow’s dad. He had real power.”
“Jimmy told me his dad never used it.”
The chief frowned and said, “I heard Jimmy’s dad sing Wolf Song in Haida Gwaii 15 years ago.”
That gave me something else to wonder about. I told the chief I’d think about George Putty.
The chief’s prediction was being fulfilled. The wind had swung to the west and a rainbow was bridging James Bay.
≈ ≈ ≈
I was in Bartholomews, drinking Foster’s draft at the bar and fretting about Barb. A philosopher on the adjacent stool was bemoaning the collapse of western civilization. Its ultimate achievement had been the 1955 Chevrolet Bel Air. Since then it had been downhill all the way.
“They don’t make cars now,” the philosopher said with alcoholic belligerence. “They make shit. Give me a ’50s Bel Air, give me any kind of iron built in the ’40s, ’50s. That’s my idea of wheels. You telling me any Jap heap’s the match of a full-size Chev?”
“I’m driving a 1982 Chev,” I answered, referring to my rustbucket parked across the street.
“Put it there, pal.” He extended his hand. “I wanna shake hands with a guy knows cars.”
Seaweed on the Street Page 9
