Seaweed on the Street

by Stanley Evans

  “Please describe the hairbrushes to me.”

  She said in a whisper, “I’m not free to talk at the moment.”

  “Is Mr. Service in the house?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “In that case I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Of course. I’ll connect you.”

  A minute elapsed before Charles Service came on. I found myself yawning uncontrollably.

  “Hello, Seaweed. What can I do for you?” said Service in a cheerful voice.

  “You can prepare Mr. Hunt for some interesting news.”

  “What might that be?”

  “I know where his long-lost daughter is. I’ve located his granddaughter.”

  I heard Service’s quick inhalation, but when he spoke his voice sounded dubious. “That’s marvellous, of course, but are you certain?”

  “Yes. Do you want to meet me and talk about it?”

  “Sure. When can I see you?”

  “In a couple of hours.”

  “Why not come immediately?”

  “I’m afraid that you’ll have to wait.”

  “Why do I have to wait, what for?”

  “That’s my business,” I said coldly.

  “All right, but come here to Foul Bay Road, quick as you can. Bring any proofs that you’ve collected.” His voice changed and became conspiratorial as he added softly, “And Seaweed, I hope you’ve been discreet. You do appreciate that Mr. Hunt loathes headlines.”

  “Don’t worry about it. So far, the only people in this town who know about these things are you and me.”

  We both heard the click on the line as somebody replaced a receiver.

  Now somebody else knew. Iris Naylor? Sarah Williams? I hung up without commenting.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Black storm clouds were hovering above the Sooke Hills when I set out on a five-minute walk to police headquarters. Dew sparkled on the weeds growing in a vacant lot near the Johnson Street bridge. As I waited for a traffic light to change, a girl about 15 trudged ahead against the red light. She had a shaven head and enough body piercings to fill a scrap-yard. The rear half of her midriff was a red Chinese dragon tattoo.

  The traffic light turned green. Suddenly I felt weary. I had to force myself on. I stopped at a camera shop on Douglas Street and ordered quick copies of the photographs I’d brought from Reno.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  “You’ve been a bad boy,” Bernie said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  Watery sunlight fell through Bernie’s windows, yellowing his head and shoulders. The window had been opened to help ventilate the room. Victoria’s police headquarters was new but had already acquired a faint institutional odour of human sweat overlaid with disinfectant. A pigeon alighted on the windowsill. Bernie got up, took a quart can of birdseed from a filing cabinet and scattered a handful on the ledge. The bird cocked its head and surveyed my friend with one tiny brilliant eye, ready for instant flight. It pecked a few seeds, then with another flutter of wings it was gone.

  Bernie stayed facing the window, both hands in his pockets. He said, “Summer’s going, Silas. It’s clouding up. Did you bring your umbrella?”

  “Umbrellas are for sissies,” I said.

  “Borrow that one in the corner,” said Bernie, sitting down. “Otherwise you’ll get soaked.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Bernie.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the guy who left it here.”

  “He won’t mind?” I said, going along with Bernie’s spiel.

  “Not for a while. He’s in the crowbar motel. After Bulloch is finished dealing with you, you might be able to deliver it in person.”

  I grinned. Bernie grinned too.

  Bernie sat down and hitched one knee over the other.

  I said, “Is Patty here?”

  “Yeah, we brought her in from Wilkie jail. She’s in the women’s lock-up, biting her fingernails.”

  “I can understand she might be a little anxious.”

  “She ought to be. Patty’s in big trouble.”

  “Who are you kidding? The only thing you can stick her with is possession of stolen property. To wit, one green Toyota Corolla. I’m sure she didn’t kill Fred Eade.”

  “Who did?”

  “Look. I’m half asleep, flailing around in the dark. I’ve got some answers and a lot of riddles. Let me talk to Patty before I keel over.”

  He said, “There’s a tie-in between the Fred Eade killing, the guy who shot you, and Calvert Hunt. What is it?”

  “I’m not quite certain.”

  A cold smile brushed his lips. “You’re not certain, but you’re pretty sure, right?”

  “Fred Eade responded to an ad I put in the paper. But Fred’s the kind of guy’s been making enemies all his life. The town’s full of people who would shank him for $5.”

  “The town’s filling with people who would shank you for 50 cents.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I’m not a politician. It’s okay with me if every asshole in town hates me. Why should I care?”

  “You don’t care if people shoot at you, send you to hospital?” Bernie stood up abruptly. “Fine. You win. Let’s go see Patty.”

  Bernie marched out of his office and I followed along the corridor. Printers hummed, footsteps echoed. The radio dispatcher’s amplified voice could be heard over everything else. Uniformed cops sat at desks piled high with paper. We passed through a frosted-glass door into a public waiting room. A smiling policewoman was behind a desk, accepting a petition from six angry old ladies wearing identical felt hats, shapeless coats and sneakers.

  Bernie frowned sourly at the grannies and growled, “This place is turning into a fucking madhouse.”

  We took an elevator to the top floor. A jail matron was waiting for us on the wrong side of a barred gate. The matron let us in. Bernie and I walked another long corridor to a small, high-ceilinged interview room. It was like the interview room in Reno; the only thing missing was the feather boa.

  Patty Nolan was inside, pacing back and forth, wearing shapeless orange coveralls.

  In a loud voice, Bernie told her to sit down at the table. I sat opposite. Bernie leaned in the corner with his arms folded, listening.

  She said, “You must be Silas Seaweed.”

  “That’s right. I saw you once, in Mom’s Café. The day I met Fred Eade.”

  “Yeah, I seen you too, only I didn’t really pay attention to you at the time. It was only later when I got talking to Fred about it that I tried to remember what you looked like.”

  Patty slouched in her chair, head forward, holding a half-empty Styro-foam coffee cup. The breezy sexuality that I remembered was gone.

  I said, “You called me on the phone a couple of times, but never followed through. Why?”

  When she spoke I could barely hear her words. She said, “I’m in a jam, mister. Has he got to be here?”

  I looked at her. She drank the remaining coffee and began to poke the Styrofoam cup with long fingernails.

  I turned to Bernie. “Give us a few minutes alone?”

  Bernie pushed himself away from the wall and went out.

  “Just so you know,” I said, “the room’s probably bugged.”

  “That figures,” she said, with the toneless empty irony of a woman mistreated by men all her life. “I don’t trust cops but I ain’t afraid neither. They don’t have nothing on me and they know it. That stolen car deal is a bum rap. If I had money, I’d be long gone.”

  “What do you want to see me about?”

  She leaned forward and whispered, “I know where Marcia Hunt and her daughter are.” She sat back to watch my reaction.

  I had on my usual stone face. “You’re interested in the reward money?”

  She said, “I need money to get out of jail. Sammy Lofthouse will handle my case, but he don’t do freebies. He wants $5,000 up front and I got nothing.”

  I gave it to her straight. “I’ve got bad news,” I said.
“The search for Marcia Hunt is over. We know where she is.” Wearily, I stood up and said, “Sorry. I’ll speak to somebody and … ”

  “Sure you will!” Patty yelled angrily. “You’ll speak to some law student. He’ll take me on as a practice case, play pretend lawyer, land me in worse trouble than I am already. To get out of this mess I need the best advice I can get. Don’t you get it, mister? I could end up dead.”

  “You’ve been threatened?”

  “Why do you think I ran away? The guy that killed Fred will kill me too, if he can. You’re the last chance for me. For me and Sid.”

  “Sidney Banks?”

  Hysteria made her voice veer up and down the scale. “Yeah, who else?”

  “Sid was the man who spoke to me from a pay phone, has a funny voice?”

  “Sid talks funny because half his teeth are missing.”

  I said, “I’m very sorry. If you’d reached me with the information earlier, it would have saved me a trip to the States. You might have had the reward. Now it’s too late.”

  She stared at me with a curious expression. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about finding Marcia Hunt’s grave, in Nevada.”

  “Grave? Marcia Hunt’s grave? What kind of deal are you handing me?” she said, obviously puzzled.

  Something was out of kilter. I said, “I’m tired. Maybe I’m not thinking straight. Please make this quick. Tell me what you know about Marcia Hunt.”

  “Will I get the reward?”

  “If you’re entitled to anything, I promise you’ll get it.”

  “All right. Here goes nothing. Marcia Hunt ain’t dead. She and her daughter are living together on Hornby Island.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. Marcia Hunt is dead. I’ve seen her grave. She’s buried in … ”

  “She’s alive, I tell you! I talked to her less’n a month ago.”

  I tried to think. I assumed that the woman on Hornby Island was an imposter. Somebody that Fred Eade set up to cash in on the reward. But if that was so, why hadn’t the imposter come forward herself?

  Patty was still toying with her Styrofoam cup. Little bits of white plastic had fallen onto her lap. She had cut a row of crenellations with her fingernails. The cup resembled a miniature castle.

  I said, “Let’s have the rest of it.”

  “There is no rest. That’s it. Marcia Hunt and her daughter live on Hornby Island.”

  “What’s her daughter’s name?”

  “Hockey. It sounds dumb, but everybody calls her Hockey.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  Patty had the dull, stubborn look of someone who knows she is being disbelieved. “Don’t ask me, mister. The whole deal is nuts. Marcia Hunt is a harmless airhead, a space cadet. Her daughter ain’t much better. The pair of ’em live on social assistance, earn extra cash picking oysters.”

  “These women live openly on Hornby Island?”

  “Sure. They’ve been there for years. Hockey was raised there, everybody knows ’em, they’re kind of an island institution. Why don’t you go to Hornby, check it out?”

  I said, “Who put you on to them?”

  “Fred Eade. Fred’s known who they are for years.”

  “And Fred kept the secret until now?”

  “Why not? As far as Fred knew, Frank Harkness’s wife and daughter were just ordinary people. He had no idea they were related to Calvert Hunt.”

  “Just a minute. Are you telling me that Fred met this woman over there and recognized her?”

  Patty shook her head. She had lost that scared look and was warming to her story. “No. See, Frank Harkness, the boss biker, had a double life. Most of the time Frank was hanging out in Wellington with the club. But he had this other life that was secret, personal. He didn’t share it with nobody. So none of the bikers were ever introduced to his wife.”

  “Then how did Fred recognize her?”

  “It’s this way. The Wellington bike club used to buy pot on Hornby. Even back then everybody was growing it. Fred was on Hornby Island one time and got talking to this crazy lady. She was admiring Fred’s motorcycle and she told him that her husband had been a biker once. Fred said the lady was screwed up, but she had a photograph that she carried around in a purse. Sure enough, when Fred looked at it, it was a photo of Frank Harkness sitting on his Harley outside the Wellington club rooms. Fred was real surprised because he’d expected Frank’s wife to be a beauty, you know, a class act. But this woman was a real mess. The story is, Frank’s wife fried her brains on some bad acid.”

  Patty sounded convincing, and her story was filled with plausible details. I said, “I want to tie this down. This story you’re telling me, it isn’t second-hand?”

  Impatiently she snapped, “What have I gotta do? I told you. I seen those women with my own eyes, I been in their house, I spent time with Hockey and Marcia.”

  I changed the topic. “You say that your life is in danger?”

  Patty’s sullen look returned. “The guy that killed Fred tried to kill me too. Me and Sid.”

  “What was his motive?”

  “I dunno,” she said, avoiding my eyes.

  “You must have some idea.”

  “There’s a lot of funny stuff going down. You don’t know the half of it.”

  I said, “Has the court set your bail?”

  “I was dragged up in front of some kangaroo judge, heard a lot of Mickey Mouse bullshit. The deal is, I don’t get out of here without a lawyer.”

  “Are they treating you right?”

  “Not bad. Wilkie Road isn’t no Hyatt Regency, but I slept in worse places. The food is fair, and it makes a change from rocking around in Fred’s boat.”

  “Are you prepared to tell me where I can find Sidney Banks?”

  “No.”

  I stood up.

  She said plaintively, “Will you talk to Sammy Lofthouse for me?”

  “What I want to do first is go to Hornby Island. Speak to these two women. Lofthouse can wait.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I collected my finished prints from the camera shop, then started the short walk to the parking lot behind Swans pub. The heavens opened. Within seconds my hair and shoulders were soaked. I sheltered in a doorway and watched a pair of girls hurrying for a bus stop across the street. Rain gutters overflowed, the streets were flooded. A passing car sent sheets of water flying, splashing the girls from head to toe. Soaked, they shook their fists at the retreating driver, then, looking at each other, they dissolved into helpless laughter. Their bus arrived and hid them from view.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Charles Service answered Calvert Hunt’s front door himself. He greeted me with a smile and a handshake, then stood aside to let me enter. An inner door opened. Iris Naylor’s face showed briefly. Service led the way to his office at the back of the house. I followed wearily, feeling half dead from fatigue, then sank into a chair. Outside, oak leaves littered the lawns, raindrops pocked the swimming pool. Hunt’s Chinese gardener, dressed in a long yellow coat, was poking a stick into a drain near the three-car garage. Water dripped from a clogged gutter above a mullioned window and zigzagged down leaded-glass panes.

  Service sat on the edge of his big desk, folded his arms and said, “Rotten sort of day, but the forecast is good.”

  “Next thing you know it’ll be snowing.”

  “Snow in Victoria? That’ll be the day!” retorted Service.

  I took out some of the photographs I had brought from Reno and laid them on Service’s desk without speaking. I showed them one at a time, like a card player. Service stared down at them without moving for a moment, then he picked them all up and examined them thoughtfully.

  He put them down on his desk and tapped them with his finger. “All right. What are these all about?”

  “The younger woman is Alison Harkness Hunt. She’s Calvert Hunt’s granddaughter. The other woman is Joan Alfred.”

  “Who is Joan Alfred?”

 
“Frank Harkness’s sister.”

  A faint half-smile tugged at the corners of Service’s mouth. “Oh yeah?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why is there no recent picture of Marcia Hunt?”

  “Marcia is dead. She was killed in a freak accident.”

  “Ah!” he said, getting up from the desk and crossing to the window to stare outside. During the silence a clock inside the house chimed the hour. The chime seemed to rouse the lawyer from his reverie. He turned and said, “Dead, eh? So that’s why she never contacted the family.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Where did you find these pictures?”

  “They were given to me by Alison, Calvert Hunt’s granddaughter.”

  “But why are there no photographs of Marcia herself? After all, if you can … ”

  I took out more pictures and handed them across. Service stared in fascination for almost a minute, then looked at them all again.

  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “that’s Marcia, all right. No question. A little older than I remember her, of course. Her figure has filled out. But what’s your proof that the other women are who you say they are?”

  “There’s plenty of proof. More than enough to convince Calvert Hunt.”

  “Maybe. But first you have to convince me. We’re not disturbing the old man’s final years unless the evidence is unassailable.”

  “I don’t want to tell Mr. Hunt anything, not yet. There are some loose ends. I just wanted to prepare the way.”

  “Can I keep these photographs?”

  “Yes, you can. But the question is whether you may.” I grinned and added, “Please take good care of them.”

  Service shoved them into a desk drawer. “Right. This Alison woman. And Joan Alfred. Where are they now?”

  “Nevada. They’ve been there most of Alison’s life.”

  “Nevada? I’m surprised to hear it.”

  “Why?”

  Service shrugged. “I don’t know, really. Seems a bleak, hot sort of a place to me, not what Marcia was used to. Still, I expect she followed Frank Harkness, eh?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “How did Marcia die?”

  “She owned a little ranch. It’s very odd. She was shot and killed by rustlers.”

  Service smiled fleetingly. “Well, it’s an unusual end but perhaps not unfitting. Marcia was attracted to danger. Were the rustlers captured?”