Bone Dance

by Joan Boswell

  “Hmm, it’s sealed, and opening it might be considered tampering with evidence, even if it proved to be nothing.”

  I looked at Harley. He looked at me, and a slow smile inched across both our faces.

  “Well, I could say I just opened it along with the other mail, not looking to see who it was meant for.”

  I nodded. “Just what I was thinking. Let’s head over to the Second Cup, my treat.”

  We each ordered a cappuccino. I paid, then searched out a table while Harley waited for our cups. The place was about half full, but I by-passed the spots with a view for the single booth with the padded bench towards the back. Harley had tucked the envelopes in his jacket pocket, so while I waited, I tried to dredge up some obscure fact that I’d buried in the back of my mind which was now teasing me to be let out.

  Jordan’s reaction to my final question had sparked it. Garry and his girlfriends. I knew nothing about his current love life, except that he had an active one. What I did know was his past, starting in reverse order with Crystal, then me, and who had I replaced? He’d talked about her a few times, which had steamed me, as I recalled.

  Come to think of it, I’d been ticked off at him quite often, which would account for my not being too fazed when he paired off with Crystal. There was one double date with Jordan, though, which had led to a doozy of a fight on my doorstep. Mainly because Garry had gone all surly and uncooperative when Jordan turned up with his new date, Amanda Brown, who was now Amanda Whiteside . . . who had been Garry’s squeeze before me. That was it.

  Now what it meant, I had no idea, unless Garry and Amanda had taken up where they’d left off. It would have been pretty dumb of Garry to jeopardize the new partnership he’d wanted so badly. Interesting thought, though.

  Harley arrived with our drinks, then ripped open the thick envelope first. He glanced through it, then passed it over to me. “Well, it’s the opera, all right. Call’s it Brian’s Song. He’ll have to come up with something catchier than that though. Fuck, guess he won’t have to.” He gave a short, embarrassed laugh.

  I started reading but turned to skimming until page 5. “He’s changed the font for a few pages.” I thumbed through four of them until it went back to Times New Roman.

  Harley took more care opening the second envelope. He pulled out a yellowed newspaper article and started reading. I went back to my task.

  I’d finished one page when Harley filled me in. “It talks about a car accident back in the mid-eighties. Some music student at Carleton U drove his wheels into that cement abutment coming down Bank Street at Billings Bridge. He died on the way to the hospital. Wonder what that’s all about.”

  I reached for the clipping. Brian Swenson had been 23 the night he died. Same age as the Brian in the story I held in my hands. Brian Swenson, as I recalled, had been Garry’s roommate at the time of the accident, the year before we became an item. I went back to reading the libretto.

  I needed another cappuccino to steady my trembling hands. Harley joined me in drinking, but didn’t say a word as he watched me over the rim of his cup.

  I took a final sip then said, “I think I know who did it.”

  “Well, are you gonna to tell me?”

  “Not until I’m certain.”

  I arrived at the Whiteside residence as Amanda was leaving. Her face was a dead give-away that things were not right in her world. She pasted on a weak smile and ushered me through the door, then left. I should have suggested she don some dark glasses until the puffy eyelids and redness disappeared.

  I heard movement in a room towards the far end of the dazzling foyer. I called out Jordan’s name as I reached the door. Then knocked. The door swung open and Jordan glared down at me.

  “Now what is it?” he asked. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “I’m trying to get my show pieced together, and I just wanted to ask you a couple more questions. Did Garry show you what he’d written?”

  “I’d seen some lyrics. I’ve written four numbers so far, but he’d only finished one. I think he was concentrating on the libretto.”

  I’ll say. “And had he shown you any of that?”

  “No.”

  “Told you what was in it?”

  He moved over to the massive walnut desk that commanded the entire half wall between a fireplace and the doorway, and leaned against it. “Some. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just reading over what he’d done so far, and it’s a bit odd. He has two versions on the go, almost like he can’t make up his mind.”

  Jordan picked up a pewter letter opener and started turning it over, top to tip, between his hands. “He did say something about not knowing which way to take it. How much had he written?”

  “Enough for me to know why you’d agreed to go in on the project.”

  “Is that so? Why don’t you tell me all about it, Terri.”

  I stood up, partly to show some assertiveness but mainly to get into position to make a break for it if need be. Since he stood between the hall and me, it would have to be the patio. “It’s called Brian’s Song . . . did you know that?”

  “No. That’s just his working title. We hadn’t gotten around to discussing it.”

  “It’s a good choice, since the story seems to be about a young music student named Brian who died in a car accident. However, the interesting part is that Brian had written a composition that he was about to enter in the CBC Young Composer’s Contest. And the twist is that the song was entered, but under someone else’s name. And it won first prize. That person, named Jody, goes on to become a big success in the music world or at least, that’s where I think Garry was taking it.”

  Jordan strolled towards me. “I had no idea Garry could plot intrigue. It might have been a success after all.”

  “Except that it’s based on a true story, isn’t it, Jordan? I remember Garry talking about his former roommate Brian Swenson. In fact, I’ve been remembering a lot from those days, like how Garry and Amanda were once an item.”

  He flinched but kept walking. I’d begun to inch over towards the French doors behind me. I’d spotted what looked like a heavy-duty statue of an Irish Setter on a small table along my flight path.

  “I’ve no time for reminiscing, Terri.”

  “No, I guess you’ve got to get busy covering your tracks. It won’t take the police long to reach the same conclusions once they see the libretto plus the newspaper clipping Garry had saved. What did you do, rig Brian’s car to crash for good measure?”

  Jordan’s mouth stretched to a tight line. “Garry had it coming. He was blackmailing me to do the opera with him, and the bastard was screwing my wife on the side. And now, it’s your turn . . . you always were too nosy, Terri.”

  He lunged at me with the letter opener. I grabbed the statue and knocked the knife out of his hand, then gave him a swift kick between the legs, right where it counts. He lurched forward and smashed through the glass doors just as Detective Czenko and his boys rushed into the house.

  “You okay, Terri?” Czenko watched as one officer, gun in hand, checked the bloodied body of Jordan Whiteside.

  “He’s alive.” The other officer radioed for the paramedics.

  Czenko hadn’t waited for my answer. He knelt next to Jordan, made sure he was coherent and then read him his rights.

  I stood there and thought about Garry and Jordan, Garry and Amanda, Garry and me while I tried unhooking the wire the police technician had taped under my sweater.

  Linda Wiken is owner of Prime Crime Mystery Books in Ottawa. Her short stories have appeared in the four previous Ladies’ Killing Circle anthologies (she was co-editor of Cottage Country Killers) as well as other mysterious publications. She has not aspired to singing opera, although she is a member of the Ottawa Police Chorus.

  Summertime

  Audrey Jessup

  It rained solidly the first three days of our holiday at the cottage on the Rideau Lakes. After doing all the chores to get the place shipshape, we had to
try to entertain ourselves. We never had a TV at the cottage. Mom figured it did us all good to live without it for the summer. So she worked on her quilting, Dad and Donny played chess, and I built a model generator. Donny was always real smart at theory and brain games. I was better at practical hands-on stuff. Mom says even at the age of four, I had figured out I had to look after my brother, although he was three years older. I was the one who knew where the cereal was kept. Donny was the one who could figure out the guidelines for assembling the prizes that came in the cereal boxes. Now, at thirteen, I was okay at following written instructions, but Donny was going to be one of the people who write the instructions in the first place.

  Being holed up in a cottage in the rain is not great for family togetherness, but before we got real snarky with each other, the weather cleared. On the fourth day we woke up to sunshine, and we all went for a swim. Afterwards, Donny and I took the canoe out to see what was new on the lake since last year. As we tied up the canoe at the dock and climbed the slope to the cottage, we could hear them arguing. Mom, her hair covered with that dye stuff you could smell a mile off, was leaning over the porch, holding a cocoa tin. She was shouting at Dad, who was hunkered down on an old plastic sheet with bits of machinery scattered all around him.

  “It’s only down to the village and back, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “He’ll be back in five minutes.”

  “But you know he’s not supposed to drive without a licensed driver with him. What if he’s stopped for some reason? We’ll all be in trouble.”

  “Well, I can’t go. I’ve just got the lawnmower apart, and if I leave it, I’ll never remember where anything went. Besides, I’m up to my elbows in grease. You’ll have to go.”

  “How can I go with all this black goop on my hair? I don’t imagine you want it all over the car.”

  “Then it’ll just have to wait until the goop’s finished, won’t it?”

  “I can’t wait that long. I’ve already started the recipe. I have to have the cocoa now. I’ve got all the other ingredients mixed and ready. I promised Grampa I’d make him his favourite cake for his party.”

  Dad just shrugged. “There’s always ice cream.”

  “I am not going to celebrate my father’s birthday with a dish of ice cream.” A little pulse throbbed in Mom’s neck, and her face was beginning to go pink.

  “Well, then, you’ll have to let Donny go. Just give him the money and tell him what you want. Tim can go with him to keep an eye on things. Right, sport?” He winked at me. “Whistle for the dog and take him, too. He always likes a car ride.” He tossed the car keys to Donny. “Drive carefully, now. No racing up and down, revving the engine.”

  Mom fussed a bit more before she finally caved in. “You will be careful, won’t you? The roads may still be slippery after all that rain.”

  “Sure, Mom.” Donny turned away, giving me a high five. “Let’s go. Get Alfalfa.”

  I didn’t have to “get” Alfalfa. As soon as that old dog heard the clink of car keys, he was in the back seat before anyone else had a chance.

  “You’d better sit in the back with him,” Donny said. “I don’t want him poking his head over my shoulder and distracting me while I’m driving.”

  He made it sound very important.

  I sat in the back with my hand through Alfalfa’s collar. He wanted to put his head out of the window behind the driver’s seat, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him over so he’d stick his head out the other side.

  The lane from the cottage to the highway was all blotchy with sunlight coming through the leaves.

  “Gee, it must be harder to drive when you can’t see the bumps and things,” I said.

  “Naw,” said Donny. “You get a feel for these things.”

  Yeah, right. Ten driving lessons and a few hours behind the wheel, and you get a feel for these things. Mom had let him drive part of the way to the cottage and he’d done okay, even with Mom sitting stiff as a board beside him. She’d done okay, too, only told him to be careful once because the old gateposts at the end of our road made the turn very sharp.

  It was only five kilometres to the village. We went to Murphy’s General Store, and while Donny bought Mom’s stuff, I got three ice cream cones, chocolate with chocolate chips. The third one was for Alfalfa. Otherwise I’d never be able to eat mine in peace. Even at that I had to be fast.

  Donny still had most of his ice cream when we’d finished ours. He was driving home along the main street, taking a lick at his cone now and again, driving with one hand. We were almost out of the village when two ladies with three little girls stepped onto the road ahead, and he slowed right down to let them cross over. Suddenly, Alfalfa lunged for Donny’s ice cream, knocking the cone into his lap. I made a grab for Alfalfa’s collar. The car leaped forward, and there was a thump. A Raggedy Ann doll hit the window on the passenger side, the red hair all spread out like a halo.

  Donny’s foot must have jammed on the gas pedal, because suddenly we were racing through town. I looked out the rear window and saw people bending over something in the road.

  “Donny,” I said.

  “Shut up.” The cords on the back of his neck were rigid.

  “But . . .”

  “Just shut up.”

  We drove back to the cottage in silence. Even Alfalfa knew better than to move. But my mind wouldn’t stop. I kept seeing the people bending over something in the road. Surely it was just the doll. It must have got broken. Yeah, that was probably it. I should never have let go of Alfalfa’s collar.

  Donny parked beside Mom’s car. As soon as I opened the door, Alfalfa took off as if he knew he was guilty, too. But we couldn’t both crawl under the porch and hide.

  “Take the bag for Mom,” Donny said.

  I took a look at the front of the car as I went by. The right headlight was broken, and there were a few scratches. There was no blood. So maybe it was okay.

  “Everything all right?” Dad asked me as I went by.

  “Sure,” I said. “Except Donny spilt his ice cream down the front of his pants.”

  Dad grinned. “That’d be a bit of a shocker.” He called over to Donny. “If I’d known driving solo was going to make you dirty your pants, I’d have gone myself.” He laughed. “Tim, do you want to give me a hand afterwards? This lawn mower is turning out to be more complicated than I thought.”

  “Do you have the book? Donny could work it out from that.”

  Dad didn’t have the lawn mower book. I don’t know whether Donny could have concentrated on it, anyway. I helped Dad with the machine, and I had a hard time keeping my mind on the job. Donny took Alfalfa and went out in the canoe.

  By lunch time, we had the mower fixed, Mom’s hair was its usual brown, and Grampa’s favourite chocolate cake was cooling on the counter.

  Mom frowned at Donny pushing his sandwich around on the plate. “Are you feeling okay?” she asked. “You look a bit pale.”

  I jumped in. “Too much sun,” I said. “Swimming this morning and the canoe ride after. It was hot out there. And we did have the ice cream.”

  “Well, ice cream doesn’t seem to have spoilt your appetite, young man,” Mom said as I finished my sandwich.

  “Oh, damn,” Dad said. “I wanted to check if it had marked the upholstery. I’d better take a look. It’s easier to get out before it sets.”

  Donny got up and went into the bathroom.

  I kept my head down, but I heard the screen door bang behind Dad. When he came back in, his tread was heavy.

  “How did the headlight get broken, Tim?”

  I swallowed. “We . . . we hit the gatepost as we came in.” I said it fast, as if that would make it more true.

  “I knew something was upsetting him,” Mom said. “He was so quiet, even for Donny.” She looked at my father. “He was probably afraid to tell you he’d damaged the car. Poor kid must have been going through agonies.” She got up and went to the bathroom door. “Donny,” she called. “It’s okay
. Tim told us how you broke the light. It could happen to anyone. Come out, and I’ll give you something to settle your stomach.”

  His voice was muffled. “I’ll be out in a minute.” We heard the water running in the basin.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you’d hit the gatepost?” Mom said as soon as he opened the door.

  Donny looked at me.

  “Dad asked me how the headlight got broken,” I said quickly, before he could say anything. “So I told him how we took the turn a bit too wide.”

  “We really should take down those posts, Jack. I’ve always found the turn difficult myself.” Mom put her arm round Donny’s shoulder. “You should have told us. It’s not the end of the world, you know.” She looked at my father. He didn’t say anything. “Will the insurance cover it?” she asked.

  Dad shook his head. “We can’t use the insurance. We could lose all our coverage if they find out we let him drive on his own.”

  “Well, we don’t have to tell them that. I could say I was with him when it happened.”

  “It would still send the rate for him sky high, and it’s costing enough already.” Dad frowned. “It will be better if I say I did it. I guess it’s really my fault, anyway. I should have just left the damned lawnmower.” His chair scraped on the floor as he pushed it back. “I’ll go and have a look at the post so I can get my story straight.” Donny and I looked at one another. He was as pale as his white T-shirt.

  “Come on, Donny,” Mom said. “I want you to go lie down for a while. You look dreadful. Clear the table, Tim, will you.”

  As I stacked the dishes, I could hear Mom making him take a couple of aspirins. Dad seemed to be gone a long time.

  When he came back in, he walked slowly over to the table and sat down. “Where’s Donny?” he said.

  “Mom made him go to bed. She’s giving him some aspirins. She thinks maybe he caught cold swimming.”

  “I checked both posts.” His voice was flat. “There are no . . .” He stopped talking abruptly when my mother came back into the room.

  “He looks really ill,” she said, frowning. “I hope he hasn’t caught something.” She turned to me and put her hand on my forehead. “You seem okay. Do you think you could sweep the porch and straighten things up before Grampa arrives?”