by L. R. Wright
“It’s Denise,” said Susan Atkinson suddenly. “It’s Denise who wants to kill him.”
“Don’t!” said Ivan. He took a breath. “Don’t say another word, Susan.”
A quiet moment happened then. Susan stood tall, with her head lifted high. Ivan was bracing himself, on the ottoman, leaning heavily on his hands. Eddie’s eyes scurried back and forth between them, as if she were watching a portentous moment in a movie.
Then, “Talk to me, Ivan,” said Alberg. His tone was impersonal and detached.
Ivan said miserably, “Oh Christ. It’s so fucking humiliating...”
***
They drove back to the detachment in silence. Eddie was busy trying to imagine the Dyakowski woman thwacking Ivan over the head. With a cast-iron frying pan, no less. What a cliché.
“Do you think Denise just wanted to embarrass him?” she asked Alberg, when he had parked the Oldsmobile but seemed in no hurry to get out. “I mean, do you think she came to you with the story about the cleaning lady so you’d end up talking to Ivan, and he’d have to tell you that she’d almost killed him?” She had a sudden vision of Denise laboriously maneuvering the unconscious body of her husband into the trunk of his car. “Jesus,” she said. “I can’t believe he doesn’t want to lay charges. Are we going to charge her? We’ve got a good selection of felonies. Attempted murder’s only the biggest. There’s also—”
“I want you to check out who Andrew was trying to talk to that day.” Alberg undid his seat belt. “And if it turns out to be Mrs. O’Hara, I want you to proceed as we discussed, look for a connection between her and Rebecca Granger. And the vanished waitress, too.”
They got out of the car, and Alberg locked it.
“So you think Mrs. D. really is concerned for him?”
“Maybe it’s Mrs. O’Hara she’s concerned for,” he said, as they walked up the steps to the detachment. “What I do think is that Denise Dyakowski is too smart to draw attention to herself. If she was planning to make another attempt on her husband’s life, she sure wouldn’t come to the police station first.”
“I think I’ll go talk to Andrew tonight,” said Eddie, following Alberg through the door.
He turned, stopping her in her tracks. “Nothing’s going to happen to Ivan Dyakowski tonight; he’s safely tucked away in that apartment with his girlfriend. So go home, would you, please? Get some sleep.” He started off toward the hall that led to his office, then stopped and turned around again. “What’s the matter with you, Sergeant? You do have a home, don’t you?”
“Of course I’ve got a home.”
Behind them, phones rang and Alberg heard laughter. He had a sudden image of himself alone in an office somewhere in downtown Vancouver, a lamp pouring an even-edged pool of light onto the desk blotter in front of him. He saw himself lift his head to look into the darkness and the silence of the room. He saw himself smile.
Yet he would miss this place. These people.
He walked back to stand next to Eddie, who had remained near the door. “What is it, Sergeant?” he asked quietly.
She removed her cap and rubbed her forehead. “I’ve been getting some phone calls.”
“What kind of phone calls? Obscene? Threatening?”
She shook her head. “It’s nothing, Staff. It’s not the job. It’s a personal thing.”
They were standing close together, speaking in tones that had become almost hushed. Alberg suddenly felt awkward. He nodded at Eddie, who he thought looked grim, but capable. “Okay.” He hesitated. “You’ve got my home number.”
“Right.”
“So you call me. If you need anything.”
“Right. Thank you, Staff.”
Chapter 24 Saturday, April 6
SUSAN EASED OUT of bed, slid her feet into slippers, and took her robe from its hook on the back of the door. She left the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her so as not to awaken Ivan, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. While it brewed, she stepped out onto the balcony to take a quick look at the morning.
Her bed was far too small for the two of them, even though it was a double. Ivan was a restless sleeper, flinging his limbs recklessly about; Susan was frequently awakened by an arm thudding onto her chest, or a cold foot seeking purchase on her calf. She had thought his fitfulness might be a temporary condition, caused by the recent traumatic events in his life, but he had told her, no, this was the way he always slept. Susan thought something could probably be done to bring tranquillity to his slumber. Exercise, perhaps. A change in his diet. Pills, if absolutely necessary.
It was a soft, tender morning. There was scarcely a breeze, and the sky was the palest of blues, faded and tremulous. Susan could hardly hear the sea. The waves stirred absentmindedly back and forth upon the gravel beach, so lethargically as to create almost no sound at all.
But the sunlight was strong. Its warmth struck her firmly, fell deeply upon her. It felt so good that Susan dragged the ottoman out onto the balcony and fetched a mug of coffee when it was done, then sat down, wrapping her robe tightly around her, and watched the day come alive.
She had plans for this Saturday—shopping, mostly: she and Ivan had pretty well emptied her cupboards since his arrival on Monday. But she also wanted to get Ivan to talk about his plans. Just a little bit. She knew it was far too soon for him to be making important decisions about the future. But did he intend to stay on in Susan’s apartment, for instance? Or would he be getting one of his own?
Down on the beach, the white-haired man was once again walking his corpulent, slow-moving dog. Two teenagers on bikes pedaled lazily along the sidewalk. A large, gray-haired woman sat on one of the benches, gazing out at the water.
Of course, he was perfectly welcome to stay as long as he liked. But Susan thought that once this business with Denise and the cleaning woman had been resolved, Ivan might want more room, more privacy, than was available to him in her small apartment.
A young woman wearing shorts and a sweatshirt appeared on the beach, spread a blanket on the gravel, and sat down in the middle of it. She pulled a thermos, a paperback book, a Walkman, and a bottle of what Susan decided was sunscreen from her backpack and took off her sweatshirt, revealing a halter top. It was a warm morning, Susan admitted, but she hadn’t thought it warm enough for sunbathing. The young woman hooked herself up to the Walkman, rubbed lotion on her bare legs, arms, and midriff, and sank back on her elbows, offering herself to the sun.
“Hi,” said Ivan, placing his hands on Susan’s shoulders. “How about some breakfast?”
She loved his eyes, his thin lips, the space between his front teeth.
He leaned down to kiss her cheek, and her neck, and Susan took hold of his hands and moved them under her robe onto her breasts. She tilted her head back and watched his face come nearer and nearer. She could scarcely breathe, but opened her mouth, in invitation. This—the sex—was still so good.
***
Mrs. O’Hara, sitting on the bench, gazing at the quiet sea and the sky, which was the color of a robin’s egg, found herself propelled back to the last springtime she had spent in the Fraser Valley. She recalled it as an endless parade of sundrenched days with skies that were always blue, seductive breezes, and floral perfumes everywhere—and a full moon every night for weeks. At least, this was how she remembered it, the season of Tom’s betrayal.
She poured another cup of tea from her thermos and glanced again at Susan Atkinson’s balcony. It was empty now. They had gone inside. They might not leave the apartment at all today, of course. Or one of them might leave, but not the other.
Mrs. O’Hara admitted this possibility, but didn’t take it seriously. It was too nice a day to spend indoors.
***
“I haven’t a clue what it means,” said Ivan, shoveling corn flakes into his mouth. “Denise didn’t say anything about the bloody cleaning woman when she brought me the note,” he said, his voice a mumble. “So I’m not taking it seriously.”
�
�But the police, they’re taking it seriously,” said Susan, sitting opposite him, drinking her third mug of coffee. She never ate breakfast, but made up for this at lunch and dinner.
“Oh, I don’t think so, hon,” said Ivan, pushing the empty cereal bowl away from him. He put a slice of bread in the toaster. “Karl came to see me out of courtesy. He thought he had to pass on what crazy Denise had to say because we’re friends, he and I. Well—acquaintances.” He scooped marmalade out of a jar that sat on the table and dropped it onto his plate. “Come on, Susan, really.” He laughed. The toast popped up and he grabbed it, slathered it with butter, then marmalade, and took an enormous bite. “A deranged cleaning woman?” Bits of orange peel were lodged between his teeth. He laughed again. “Denise had some kind of damn hallucination, that’s all.”
“Hurry up, Ivan, will you?” said Susan, with a sharpness that surprised her. She got up from the table, glancing at her watch. “Let’s get going. I want to get out of here.”
***
Mrs. O’Hara had been waiting for a long time, stirring frequently upon the hard seat of the bench, when she saw them. They slipped out the apartment door and crossed the grass to the parking lot, moving slowly, casually—undeterred, then, Mrs. O’Hara guessed, by whatever the police officers might have told them.
When she had seen them drive away, Mrs. O’Hara checked the time, then got up from the bench—awkwardly, because her joints had stiffened—and walked several blocks to the small shopping center where she had left the van. She drove it to the apartment building, unloaded her cleaning supplies into two pails, and trudged up to the door, where she buzzed the caretaker.
Crackles emitted from the intercom.
“Joey? It’s Mrs. O’Hara.”
“Hiya, Miz O’Hara.”
“I got me a new client. Susan Atkinson. Supposed to do her place this morning, but she forgot to get me a key.”
More crackling occurred. “Doesn’t surprise me a bit,” said Joey.
“Can you let me in?” asked Mrs. O’Hara.
***
Eddie found Alberg at Earl’s, where he was having lunch: poached eggs on toast with side orders of bacon and whole wheat toast. She thought he looked slightly guilty when she slid into the chair across from him, and decided that he probably wasn’t supposed to eat eggs.
“You went to see Andrew last night, didn’t you?” Alberg accused, but Eddie figured he just wanted to divert her attention from his plate.
“Yeah, I did,” she admitted. “It only took a half hour or so.”
“And?”
“Mrs. O’Hara cleans the store.” She grinned at him.
“And he told her about his wife’s abortion?”
Eddie nodded. “He says she was vacuuming at the time, so he had to shout. Can you imagine?” she said, wincing. “Anyway, he says she just kind of grunted, but then she wanted to know where his wife worked, and where they lived.”
“You seem to be making a connection between this woman’s abortion and her homicide,” said Alberg, pushing his plate aside.
“Am I?” said Eddie. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He’d only eaten one of the eggs, Eddie noticed, as Earl arrived, carrying a pot of coffee and a cup for Eddie.
“Top you up?” he asked, and then for some reason threw back his head and laughed.
Alberg gave him an irritated glance and didn’t bother to answer. Earl swooped down with the pot and filled Alberg’s cup so full that the coffee sloshed into the saucer. He laughed again and hurried away.
“What the hell’s the matter with him today?” asked Alberg. “He’s been giggling into his chin ever since I got here.”
“I heard he sold the cafe,” said Eddie.
“Sold it?” said Alberg incredulously. “You mean, he was serious?”
Eddie nodded. “Apparently his sister in Vancouver is pretty sick, and she wants Earl to go there and take care of her.”
Alberg was gazing at her, spellbound. “How do you know these things, Sergeant? You’ve only been here, what, a few days? Although, I admit, it seems like longer.”
Eddie frowned at him. “I hang out in the bar, Staff.” She opened her notebook and flipped through its pages. “Mrs. O’Hara also cleaned for Rebecca Granger’s mother,” she said. “And for a while, she used to clean right here. For Earl.” She let the notebook rest in her lap.
“And this was during the time that waitress, Rochelle, worked here?”
Eddie nodded. “So. What do we do now?”
Alberg got his wallet from his pocket and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “You get a warrant,” he said. “For Mrs. O’Hara’s cabin, and her vehicle. Thanks to her visit to Denise Dyakowski, this shouldn’t be a problem.”
***
It was mid-afternoon when Eddie Henderson and two constables arrived on Mrs. O’Hara’s doorstep. She must have heard them coming, because she opened the door before Eddie had had a chance to knock.
Mrs. O’Hara barely glanced at the warrant. “You’re arresting me, then,” she said calmly.
“No, Ma’am,” said Eddie. “We’ve got a warrant to search these premises, and to perform a similar search on your vehicle, that’s all.”
“Will you take the van away to do this?”
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m afraid we will.”
Mrs. O’Hara regarded her curiously. Such a big, strong young woman, the sergeant was. Probably blunt, if not always candid. Probably physically capable—she must have learned some kind of self-defence skills at police school. Karate, maybe? Plus she was armed, of course. What a lot of time and trouble that would save. She was returning Mrs. O’Hara’s examination with a steady gaze of her own, standing there easily, her feet slightly apart, her right hand outstretched, offering the warrant, left hand resting lightly on something attached to her belt: handcuffs? a radio? And Mrs. O’Hara found her attention beguiling.
But she shook her head.
“It’s all right,” she said, “I don’t need to see that. Please wait a minute, while I get my jacket. And maybe you’d allow me to take along a thermos of tea?”
“Take it where?” said Eddie, sounding somewhat witless.
“To the police station,” said Mrs. O’Hara patiently.
“I told you, Ma’am, you aren’t under arrest.”
“Well I’d better be,” said Mrs. O’Hara. “I’m confessing to you, Sergeant. Here and now. I’m confessing to murder.”
***
“There’s no law against it,” said Alberg.
“But she ought to see a lawyer,” said Eddie.
“You heard her. She doesn’t want a lawyer.”
“But she has to have a lawyer.”
“Yeah. I agree. But not yet. Not if she says she doesn’t want one. I’m going to give her what she’s asked for, Sergeant.”
They were standing in the hall outside Alberg’s office, where Mrs. O’Hara was ensconced because the interview room was being painted. She sat in the black leather chair, and as they had left to consider her request she had poured herself yet another cup of tea.
“Go give her a ring, Sergeant,” said Alberg. “Tell her to get over here.”
Fifteen minutes later Cindi Webster burst into the detachment. She was wearing a skirt, blouse and jacket, and pumps and pantyhose. She had left her huge shoulder bag at home and carried only a brand new notebook and a pen. “Here I am,” she said, breathless.
Eddie threw Alberg a look that might have been disgust, or only exasperation, but that certainly made her displeasure plain.
Alberg took Cindi into his office, and Eddie followed.
“You’re still writing stories about people and their work?” said Mrs. O’Hara to the reporter, who nodded, slowly. “Can we be alone in here?” she asked Alberg.
“No, Ma’am,” he said. “The sergeant’s going to stay here with you. And this tape recorder, too,” he said, setting it on top of his desk.
Mrs. O’Hara was looking at Cindi. “I hope you’re up to this,” she
said.
Cindi looked at her with huge eyes and said nothing.
“Here,” said Alberg, pulling a folding metal chair into the office. “Sit,” he said, and Cindi sat. Alberg left, making sure the door remained ajar.
Eddie Henderson stood against the wall opposite the window and watched Mrs. O’Hara, who seemed immensely weary, all of a sudden, as if the effort of holding her head upright was soon going to be more than she could manage.
“What they’re going to find in my cabin is absolutely nothing,” Mrs. O’Hara said to Cindi.
Eddie walked to the desk and switched on the tape recorder.
“What they’ll find in my van,” said Mrs. O’Hara, “—they’ll find a wrench, and a cloth that I wrapped it in, and this cloth will have traces of blood on it.”
Cindi, scribbling, suffered a violent twitch to her shoulders.
“It’s the blood of that waitress. I forget her name. She’s the only one that bled, thank god. And I guess they’ll find other things, too, I don’t know, fibers, whatever. Anyway, that doesn’t matter because I’ve already told them I did it.”
“You did...you...you—killed Rochelle,” said Cindi, whose body was hunched in upon itself, and whose hair hung down on either side of her face, concealing it.
Mrs. O’Hara looked at her irritably. “Will you sit up, please?”
Cindi immediately straightened, and pushed back her hair.
“Yes,” said Mrs. O’Hara. “The waitress, yes, who put her father in a home. And the woman who aborted her child. And the girl who killed her dog. Yes. Yes. Yes.” Her voice had risen in volume and pitch.
Eddie shifted uneasily by the door.
“Why?” said Cindi.
Mrs. O’Hara stared at her. She planted her hands on her thighs, fingertips almost touching, and leaned forward, toward Cindi. “Because they were sinners,” she said.
Cindi scribbled again, fervently, with a shaking hand. Eddie wondered if she’d be able to read her handwriting later.
“And there were others,” said Mrs. O’Hara.
“Others,” Cindi repeated.
Mrs. O’Hara sat back and looked up at the window, through which a swath of sunlight stretched to the floor. “It started with Tom. More than ten years ago, it was.”
