Seaweed on the Street

by Stanley Evans

  Service asked me to meet him in the Ross Bay cemetery. I idled in the bushes near the Fairfield gate and watched him arrive in the Lincoln town car. I limped behind, keeping an eye on him as he strolled along tree-shaded avenues to our designated meeting place. He paused several times to shake his head at vandalized statuary and gravestones. After he’d seated himself on a park bench overlooking the sea, I joined him.

  Two full-rigged barques were racing up Juan de Fuca Strait. One was the Russian sail-training vessel Pallada. The other ship was the Cuauhtémoc, from Mexico. The massive barques were accompanied by a flotilla of smaller square-riggers and schooners, all of which were headed home following visits to Victoria’s sea festival.

  Service said, “One of my ancestors immigrated to Canada on a ship like that, in 1850. He was a carpenter. Hired by the Hudson’s Bay Company in London. Some of the shops he helped build are still standing on Government Street, including the general store once owned by Richard Carr.” Service looked at me and said, “You know who Richard Carr was, I suppose?”

  I did know, but I shook my head because Service was enjoying his talk.

  “Richard Carr was Emily Carr’s dad,” Service said and pointed. “That’s Emily’s grave, over there. The Service family plot is about 20 yards away from it.”

  I expected Service to segue into a familiar yarn — the one about how, if one’s Victoria forbears had only been sagacious enough, they could have snapped up Emily Carr’s paintings for $5 each, those then unsell-able paintings now being worth hundreds of thousands each. Mercifully, Service refrained.

  There was worse to come, though. After a rambling discourse about the weather, the latest from Iraq and the wonders of medical science, Service cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Hunt wants me to tell you, Silas, how grateful he is for your heroic efforts.” Struggling to get the proper ring of sincerity into his utterance, he added, “It’s a shame, but Calvert Hunt’s medical condition is deteriorating rapidly. Physically, he is now quite feeble, his mental condition is fading. He is forgetful and incoherent. Dr. Cunliffe doesn’t think he has Alzheimer’s, precisely, but Mr. Hunt’s senility is fairly advanced.”

  The lawyer stopped speaking and stared at the grass.

  I said quietly, “In other words, you want me to call off the search for Marcia Hunt?”

  Service looked relieved. “It’s nothing personal,” he said. “We’re impressed with your work. But the fact is, we’ve had quite a lengthy discussion … that is, me, Sarah and Sarah’s mother, Phyllis Williams … After taking everything into consideration, we’re all agreed that Marcia is certainly dead. We won’t try to influence matters further. We all think this would be Mr. Hunt’s decision also, were he capable of making rational judgments.”

  I said abruptly, “How old is Dr. Cunliffe?”

  Service seemed taken aback. He frowned and said, “I think Harry’s close to 80.”

  “And still practising medicine. He doesn’t look 80.”

  “Perhaps not. But I know for a fact that Harry’s about the same age as Calvert Hunt. Why?”

  “It strikes me as a bit curious. If Dr. Cunliffe is about 80, he must have been at least 55 when his son was born.”

  “Harry’s first wife died childless. He was about 50-odd when he got a woman called Evelyn Boothroyd pregnant and married her. I say ‘woman.’ Evelyn was scarcely more than a high-school girl. The marriage was a complete disaster. Evelyn stayed around long enough to give birth to Harry Jr.. Then she ran off to join a commune.”

  “Does Dr. Cunliffe keep in touch with her?”

  “Dunno. Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Perhaps I will. It’s not too important.”

  Service moved on the bench and said, “Don’t be a stranger, Silas. As soon as you’re fully recovered we want you to visit us at Ribblesdale. Sarah and I will be giving a pool party. You must come.”

  “I don’t think so. Ribblesdale’s a dangerous place for Indians.”

  Service’s smile vanished. Flushed and indignant he got to his feet, and for a moment I thought he was going to storm off without speaking. But he calmed himself with an effort, shook my hand and said with an attempt at levity, “You enjoy cemeteries, Seaweed?”

  “Love ’em,” I said. “Cemeteries give me the long view.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  i’d arranged to meet Dr. Cunliffe for lunch at the Oak Bay Marina Restaurant. I got there early so that I could stretch my atrophied hamstrings with a stroll along the waterfront.

  Pensioners were throwing day-old bread at the ducks. Tourists were posing for photographs near the plastic killer-whale sculpture. A 100-foot sailboat was putting out from the marina. A helmsman and a bikini-clad woman seemed to be the ship’s entire crew. I was wondering how one couple could possibly handle the large ship by themselves when the helmsman touched a button on his steering console. Electric motors whirred and the huge mainsail unfurled itself from the boom and climbed the mast unaided. On the shore by the boat shop a man was painting a rowboat. I watched him until a kingfisher flashed across my sight. The bird swooped into the water and re-emerged with a wriggling sliver of silver in its mouth.

  Dr. Cunliffe arrived.

  I knew the marina’s maitre d’ and he gave us the best table in the house. I ordered halibut steak. The doctor ordered green salad. He drank herbal tea. I sipped Foster’s lager, thinking that the doctor, skinnier and greyer than ever, would benefit from steaks and ale himself.

  Outside, a man was standing on the wharf, dangling herrings by the tail. Every once in a while a big seal’s snout appeared from the water and snatched the herrings from his hands.

  I said, “Did you know that they want me to drop the Marcia Hunt inquiry?”

  “Yes. How do you feel about that?” The doctor’s voice creaked like an old door opening.

  “What Charles Service wants is irrelevant. I was too polite to tell him that, of course, but I won’t quit any job half done.”

  “Won’t?”

  “The genie’s out of the bottle.” I grinned and added lightly, “Besides, I’m relentless.”

  “Why? Professional pride? Or is it because you want to nail the man who shot you?”

  “Or the woman,” I said.

  The doctor blinked. “That thought never occurred to me.”

  I said, “Your son loved boats. I met a man at Fisherman’s Wharf who knew Harry well. Captain Bloggs.”

  Some pleasant memory stirred the doctor and he smiled.

  I said, “In my business it’s easy to jump to conclusions. But I was making progress on the Marcia Hunt deal. And something else. I was learning things about your son. There are a couple of threads that connect Marcia Hunt and your son with the late Fred Eade.”

  He stared at me for a moment until realization dawned. “That’s the man murdered at Fisherman’s Wharf?”

  I nodded.

  Dr. Cunliffe was electrified. “Eade knew Harry?”

  “Almost certainly. Eade was a fixture around the wharf when Harry worked on fishboats.”

  “Yes. I suppose so. Harry worked a couple of summers for a man called Taffy Jones.” Dr. Cunliffe’s voice had grown stronger. “How did you get on to Fred Eade?”

  “He replied to a personal ad that I put in the Times Colonist.” I changed the subject. “Charles Service told me that Calvert Hunt isn’t well.”

  Dr. Cunliffe’s eyes were guarded. “Calvert Hunt is neither better nor worse than when you saw him last.”

  I signalled for another Foster’s and devoured the last traces of my lunch. “I know that your son spent a lot of time at Calvert Hunt’s estate. Apparently he had full run of the facilities there. How did that come about?”

  “The Hunts and the Cunliffes have been family friends for years. We had a regular bridge foursome every week till my first wife died. It’s not always a good idea to be pally with one’s physician, but it seemed to work all right for Calvert and me. When Marcia Hunt was a young girl, she spent a lot of time w
ith my first wife. Calvert liked my son and always made him welcome.”

  “Was your son’s nature anything like Marcia’s?”

  The doctor looked at me through half-closed eyes. “How do you mean?”

  “Was Harry moody, temperamental?”

  “Possibly. Like a lot of energetic boys, he could be trying at times. But generally, I’d describe Harry as a happy kid. He had an independent nature. Just before he died, Harry backpacked across the States and Mexico. Thumbing rides and doing his thing, as they say.”

  I said, “I must have been misinformed. I thought that Harry spent his last vacation working on Taffy Jones’ boat.”

  “He did work with Taffy, but only for a couple of weeks. The fishing season closed early that year. Harry spent the rest of his vacation hitchhiking.” The doctor smiled. “He’d send me postcards of his travels. I’d trace his route on an atlas. He hitchhiked as far south as Cabo San Lucas on the Baja Peninsula, then took the ferry from La Paz to Mazatlan. He went across to San Miguel and Mexico City, then winkled his way back north through Nogales into Arizona. His last postcard to me was mailed from Reno, Nevada.”

  I said, “Did your son keep a log of his travels?”

  “Why yes. I believe he did. I’ll look for it.”

  “If you find it, would you mind passing it along to me? You’ll get it back.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “No. Nothing special. It’s just a hunch.”

  The doctor glanced at his watch, then reached for the check. He said, “Sorry, Seaweed. Enjoyed our chat but I’ve got to run. Patients waiting.”

  We shook hands and I watched him go, a thin, frail, stooping old man.

  That big sailboat was nearly out of sight now, heading up Juan de Fuca Strait toward the Pacific. I watched it until a flash of reflected sunlight drew my eye to a single-engine plane approaching Victoria city from the northeast.

  I was reminded of another aircraft. The one piloted by Frank Harkness that fell into the sea a long time ago. Where was Marcia Hunt? I had plenty of questions. The leads that I’d worked so hard to find had dried up, one by one. Patrick Coulton was dead. With his secrets. Fred Eade was dead, with his secrets. Frank Harkness’s were locked away with him in a California prison.

  What next? The trail to Marcia Hunt had ended when she and her baby left Point Matlock for Reno, Nevada …

  Reno?

  CHAPTER TEN

  After my lunch with Dr. Cunliffe I permitted myself a recuperative afternoon nap, got up at 3:30, and went out to my little private garden. It was a glorious late summer’s day. I didn’t feel particularly fit, but I had felt a lot worse the day before.

  My laurel hedges needed trimming, my lawn was an inch longer than I like it. Instead of getting out my hand mower and grass shears, I sat in a garden chair and watched a wren perched atop a distant totem pole. Wrens like Indian poles — northern wrens favour mortuary poles in particular. The wren winged off into a stand of oaks. Moments later an albino squirrel ascended the pole and sat quietly on top of it. I was working on a can of Foster’s lager when somebody approached my cabin. I didn’t necessarily want company, so instead of answering the knock on my door, I peered through a gap in my hedge to see who it was. It was Sarah Williams, looking radiant. I felt a little surge of optimism and opened my garden gate.

  “Here,” I said. “You may use the tradesman’s entrance.”

  I extended my hand, but instead of taking it, Sarah put both hands on my upper arms and presented her cheek. I kissed her lightly and said, “I like your perfume. What is it?”

  “Nuit d’amour.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “Come into my night-scented garden.”

  Sarah was wearing a high-necked white silk shirt, a short purple skirt and white low-heeled pumps — simple clothes probably worth more money than my car. She had a small purple-and-white leather bag tucked underneath her arm and a nice smile on her face. Her long, tanned, lovely legs were bare. She seemed happy to see me. I told her what I was drinking and asked her if she’d like to have one as well. She nodded and sat down on my other chair. I went in to the fridge, took out a couple of cold cans, got a glass and carried it all out to my garden. I was feeling better all the time.

  The white squirrel was still enjoying its high perch. I poured Sarah’s drink, handed it to her and pointed to the pole. I said, “White squirrels are rare. When a Coast Salish sees something unusual, he generally thinks that something bad will happen.”

  Sarah seemed amused. “Such as?”

  “Such as a bad winter. Or that someone will die soon.”

  “Someone is bound to die soon, but that’s not necessarily bad. It’s equally likely that somebody will be born soon,” she said.

  I turned my chair around to face hers. “I’m very glad to see you.”

  “Likewise.” She examined her fingernails. “Did Charles Service telephone you today?”

  “No. Your fiancé did not call me today.”

  “My what?” she said, bursting into laughter. “You don’t really think that I’m planning to marry Charlie?”

  “What else? That huge diamond perched on the fourth finger of your left hand indicates that you’re engaged to somebody.”

  “This bauble is an oft-convenient subterfuge.” She slipped the ring off and dropped it into her bag.

  I said, “What’s this about Charles Service phoning me?”

  “We’re having an electric security gate put up at Ribblesdale. Finally. Complete strangers come up the drive in their bloody cars, want to know if they can have a house tour. Usually it’s no bother, the gardener or somebody else sees them off.” Sarah paused. “Yesterday was a bit different. Iris Naylor scared off another prowler. He was creeping around in the bushes, middle of the afternoon. Frightened the daylights out of the poor cow.”

  “Did she phone the police?”

  “No. She told Charles instead. He ordered her to keep the police out of it.” Sarah looked at me inquisitively.

  I said, “There’s more. You’re not telling me everything.”

  Sarah nodded and said, “That prowler. He was a Native man.”

  “A skinny man wearing a headband?”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. “So Charles did phone you after all?”

  I shook my head. “No, he didn’t call.”

  “Funny,” she said, without elaboration.

  I said, “Iris Naylor, she’s a queer fish.”

  Sarah frowned and said, “She’s a professional victim. Naylor comes from a world where people waste entire lives waiting for something to turn up.” She put her empty glass down and said, “Not me, though. Right now, for example, I’d like to see your house.”

  “In a minute,” I said, smiling. “That Jag outside. Is it yours?”

  “No. It belongs to Calvert. I take it out occasionally, if it’s not raining. Just to keep the old girl running.”

  “I noticed a Jaguar just like it a few days ago, in James Bay. It looked like yours but I couldn’t see who the driver was.”

  “Probably me. I don’t think there’s another car like it in these parts.”

  We went inside the house. My tape player was on: Charlie Musselwhite was wailing away at “Cristo Redentor.” I was going to switch it off when she said, “Please leave it on. I love Musselwhite’s harmonica playing. I have the same piece at home. Mine’s a cd.”

  She turned to examine the carved and painted wooden spirit masks hanging on my walls. She paused before a Thunderbird and said, “It’s very beautiful, I suppose, but I’m not sure I’d want it in my house.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s something a bit spooky about it. Like you, sometimes.”

  She had been looking at me as she spoke. Now her gaze shifted back to the window. She stood irresolutely for a moment and said irritably, “Oh, for Chrissake, Silas! What are you waiting for?”

  The next thing I knew, she’d stood on her toes and put her open mouth on my mouth. Adrenaline, testoster
one and other beneficial hormones waved a magic wand across my aches and pains. I forgot about my sore arm and picked her up.

  When I awoke it was dark. I put on a bathrobe and lit a dozen candles. A fishboat entered the harbour and sailed past the reservation. Its passing wake crashed against the shore in a series of diminishing sound waves. Stretching and yawning prettily, Sarah got up off my bed, blew me a kiss and carried a candle outside to my one-holer. Afterward I watched her wander about my house, naked, humming to herself, picking things up, looking at them and putting them down again in new places. She was still naked when we banqueted on Kraft Dinner and grapes and drank Chardonnay. Then, tired of food, she leaned across the table and put her tongue in my mouth. Then I was out of my chair and pulling her toward me again.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  It was September 22. Downtown Victoria was still jammed with tourists. Outside Gottlieb’s Trading Post a unicyclist was juggling cardboard boxes and sponge-rubber balls for a large, enthusiastic crowd. The juggler’s svelte assistant, nude-looking in a flesh-coloured body stocking, circulated with a hat. The aroma of coffee wafting from a nearby shop proved irresistible, so I went inside and found a seat. Glass-fronted coolers displayed pastries, fruit pies, sandwiches. Women in pale blue uniforms attended gleaming espresso machines. The unaccustomed heft of the .40 Glock revolver I was packing in a shoulder holster was uncomfortable. I reached to adjust its weight, but a slight muscular tenderness reminded me of still-healing wounds.

  Suddenly, everybody in the shop turned to watch a commotion outside. Pedestrians were scrambling because somebody had just driven a shiny black Viper onto the crowded sidewalk. The car was parked half on, half off the street. I was admiring the driver’s audacity until I saw that he was Jiggs Murphy.

  Murphy stayed in the driver’s seat. Cal got out of the passenger side, slowly unfolded himself to his full impressive height and stood outside the coffee shop for a few seconds, ignoring the frowns of passersby.

  Cal was a walking cliché. Today the pimp was kitted out like a bad-ass rapper and was all in red — red sharkskin shirt, red cotton shorts and red-leather sandals that looked as if they’d been freshly soaked in blood. Chunky gold nuggets hung from red silk cords around his neck.