Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  She grimaced as she weighed her options. “How about the stairwell?” It was the only place she could think of that would be at all private.

  He nodded, and she walked out the door with him behind her.

  Once on the landing, she spoke first. “I’m needed in the dentist office.”

  “I’ll be brief.”

  She scrunched up her mouth.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” His gruff voice was so monotone it was difficult to read. She felt like a fish under a filleting knife.

  She threw her hands in defence. “I told you everything you wanted to know.” Her stomach cramped with the lie, and she feared her face showed it. Do they give courses on how to be a better liar? Her words sounded so lame.

  “Maggy,” he said. “Can I call you Maggy?”

  She nodded, squeezing her lips together. What did she care? It was just a name after all. But it was bothersome that he thought it was a significant step in developing a closer relationship she didn’t want. She wanted their discourse to be simple, brief and over.

  “You’re holding something back.” His steely gaze held hers like a flashlight holds the eyes of a deer. Shit, he was good.

  “Okay, I’ll put my cards on the table.”

  He leaned in. His bald head glistened with sweat.

  “What exactly do you want to know? I’ll do my best to answer your questions.”

  “No bullshit?” A grin started to appear on the right side of his mouth and then stopped.

  “Nope.”

  “Was Edgar in the alley the night of Jimmy Daniel’s murder?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes shot wide. “You didn’t tell me that before.” His anger seeped into the air between them, icy-cold and heavy, making her want to shiver, but she didn’t. She held his gaze.

  “Inspector Peterson,” she replied, hoping the sound of his name would calm him. “I didn’t know that when I spoke with you. I met Edgar on Thursday in the library, like I said. That was when he told me he was in the alley Tuesday night. He saw me with Jimmy. I didn’t see him, but I believed him when he told me he was there.”

  Peterson’s eyes narrowed. His ebbing waves of anger were still strong enough to swamp her if she wasn’t careful. “What was he doing in the alley? Did he tell you that?”

  She gulped. How much should she tell him? Damn! She wasn’t going to get caught up in her own web of lies. “He said he was following Jimmy, but he didn’t get into the alley in time to witness the murder. When he got there Jimmy was on the ground and I was trying to stop his bleeding.”

  “Following? Why would a bank clerk want to follow a PI? It makes no sense.”

  She took a deep breath. “You might want to get your notebook out for this.”

  He tilted his head and did as she asked.

  “Edgar’s great-grandmother Rita kept a diary. He found it in his late mother’s things. When he read it, he learned that Rita had been one of Brother XII’s mistresses.”

  Peterson scribbled something.

  “Do you know who Brother XII is?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Go on,” he said, gruffly. “Rita—one of Brother XII’s sex slaves.”

  “She left information in the diary, which Edgar believed would lead him to the gold. But it didn’t make total sense; or if it did, it wasn’t enough information to get him to the treasure. He said it was vague and he needed help figuring it out. It had to do with geographical markers. So he hired Jimmy an investigator with a sailing background to find the location, but when he was slow to respond, he hired a second man, a fisherman from Decourcy Island whose name I don’t know.”

  Peterson kept writing.

  “The second man,” Maggy continued, “started threatening Edgar, demanding more information. Edgar got scared and warned Jimmy about him. But Jimmy stopped answering Edgar’s calls and that really worried him. He figured that Jimmy had double crossed him, knew the location of the gold, and wanted it for himself. So Edgar went after Jimmy. He caught up with him in the alley, lying in a pool of blood.”

  Peterson scratched his head. “Let me get this straight. Two days after the murder Edgar meets with you.”

  “He was really spooked. He thought he was being followed, and he warned me that I was in danger.”

  “Okay. It sounds possible.”

  “It’s true, Inspector.” She took a normal breath.

  “And what do you know about Clarence’s involvement?”

  “Clarence?” Her voice squeaked, despite her attempt to sound cool.

  “I have reports from—,” he hesitated, “—people—that Clarence and Jimmy were yelling at each other earlier in the evening.”

  “I know nothing about that.” Her insides burned with the acid of her lie.

  “You’re lying.”

  She looked at him. Their eyes locked. Damn. He knew she was lying, and he knew she knew. Sweet Jesus. She wasn’t going to incriminate the man who’d given her a chance in the music business—maybe her only chance.

  “Just tell me—something, anything—you know about their relationship.”

  She swallowed. It wasn’t fair. Clarence had nothing to do with the murder. He wasn’t that kind of man. Sure he could yell and scream at his employees and was known for his big scowl. But he was no murderer, and what she knew would make him look like one.

  “Tell me,” Peterson demanded. His square jaw rigid enough to cut rock.

  Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. She tried to stare him down, but she knew that wouldn’t work.

  “Clarence told me . . . “ she began and swallowed. “He told me that the club was in financial trouble. He’d sold a third of it to Jimmy to keep afloat. Then he heard Jimmy was talking to some condo developer who offered him big money for his share. Clarence was furious. The club means everything to him, but he didn’t kill Jimmy. I know that.”

  Peterson didn’t smile. “Clarence may not look like a murderer, but he’s still near the top of our suspect list. I’m looking into the other owner too.”

  “Then why are you asking me?”

  “Listen, I know all about Clarence and Jimmy fighting over the Black Cat. Clarence told me this morning.” He gave her a small smile. “I wanted to make sure that you were ready to tell me the truth about things.”

  “Bastard.” She didn’t mean to swear. It just came out. He’d put her through hell for what—a test. Cops. Stupid friggin cops.

  “Ouch,” he said in a disinterested monotone. “It’s my job to know the people I’m working with. Now I think I can trust you.” He hesitated. “Maybe.”

  She growled. “Can I go back to work now?”

  “One more question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “What did the dead man say?”

  Her eyes widened. He knew. Now where could she hide? “He mumbled a message for his brother that makes no sense.” There she’d said it.

  “In words, or on a piece of paper?”

  “He said it. As he was dying he said it.”

  Peterson’s eyes narrowed to pin pricks. “So he was alive when you found him. The truth this time Maggy.”

  The way he said her name made her shiver, but his quest for the truth, determination to find the murderer, compelled her to keep talking. He did listen to her. It was like he was offering her a safe harbor in the middle of this mess. Someone who seemed to understand her. But still, he was a cop. And she had lied to him. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly studying the wall behind him for a minute. It needed a fresh coat of paint.

  “Okay. This is the deal. I was tired the night you met me, tired and upset, and I didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

  “Why? Most witnesses tell me everything they know.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “I have trouble talking to cops.”

  “Because you were married to one?”

  “It’s a long story.” She grimaced. Of course, if he had looked into her background he would have found out some of it. “Anyway, I s
ort of lied to you.”

  Peterson nodded.

  “Jimmy was still alive when I found him, and he gave me a message for Logan, his brother. I thought that was a personal thing that didn’t have to go through a man in uniform. Did you get all of that down?”

  “What did he say?”

  Shit. She thought telling him this much would be enough. But no. The friggen police always wanted more. “He mumbled,” she said after a moment. “Like I said, it was impossible to make sense of it.”

  He stared her down. “Tell me what you heard.”

  “Tell Logan, ‘Emer-Old.’” She shrugged. “See it doesn’t make sense.”

  “What does Logan think?”

  Would this never end? “It’s confusing.” She paused. Time to take more control. “Jimmy was killed with a sailor’s knife, right?”

  “Yeah, sort of, a marlin spike.”

  “What’s that?” She knew, but she wanted to make sure the inspector knew.

  “It’s a spike used for rope work aboard ships. They’re usually six to twelve inches in length. Sailors, fishermen and most boat people carry a small one in their pocket. It’s handy for the unlaying of rope, splicing and untying of knots. But it can also be a deadly weapon. You’re changing the conversation. Ms. Malone, I’m the one asking the questions.”

  “That settles it. Clarence wouldn’t have a marlin spike. It’s the sort of tool mariners have and he gets sea sick when he takes a ferry to the island.”

  “Yeah, we know all that. It’s one of the reasons he’s not been charged with Jimmy’s murder. But, while it’s unlikely he’d have a marlin spike, it’s not impossible. This is Vancouver, a port town. It’s not hard to find a marlin spike.

  “We also don’t have a motive for Clarence to kill Edgar. So he doesn’t fit the profile of a murderer. But he’s not off the list yet.” He smiled gently. “Nor are you. You’re avoiding my question.”

  “I really should get back.”

  “We’re not finished here.” His voice held a hard edge, but not his body. He put his hand gently on her arm. The warmth of the gesture sent warning bells through her system. This guy’s smoothness worked way too well.

  “Tell me what ‘Emer-Old’ means”

  She opened her mouth to speak and his phone buzzed. She took a step back.

  “Peterson,” he said into the cell phone. “Yup . . . yup . . . yup . . . on my way.” The tone of his voice said he was one unhappy man in blue.

  “I’ll get back to work, now,” she said, thanking the universe for her luck.

  Maggy watched Peterson fly down the stairs.

  Had she told him too much? Hopefully not. At least he hadn’t charged her with interfering with a murder investigation. She’d probably end up telling him the rest later. Would he understand what happened on the boat? She looked at the ceiling for a moment. Nah, she would leave that out. He might refer to Martian genitalia again.

  But she wouldn’t tell him her other reasons for hating cops. Not a story she cared to share with anyone.

  For now, she had to concentrate on doing her day jobs. Getting through the day. She could do that. One step at a time. Then she could sing.

  ***

  The next patient, Long John Black, a biker from the east end with a badly abscessed tooth took up the whole chair and then some. He probably always looked scary with his black, leather clothes, scraggly beard that a rat could nest in, and eyes darker than the night. In pain he’d look a whole heap scarier. Not looking forward to this event, Maggy put the bib around his neck, and patted his shoulder reassure him. “Dr. Heatherington’s the best. You’ll feel better soon.”

  The man grunted. It wasn’t a nice sound. Some male grunts sounded kinda nice, but not this one. Definitely not this one. He smelled of beer.

  The dentist, delayed by yet another phone call, left her alone with Long John. Who would take a name that makes you think of underwear and cold weather? Weird.

  Wait. She could take advantage of the situation. “Do you . . .?” she started and then took the deepest breath she could muster.

  His eyes widened and he grunted a second time. Most foul.

  “Do you know anything about marlin spikes?”

  His mouth twisted. “Yeah,” he spat out. “What about ‘em.”

  “A friend got one in the heart,” she blurted out. Was she crazy telling this guy?

  “Nasty,” he said in a deep voice.

  “Well, how common are they?”

  “All the boat people got ‘em.”

  She was a dock person and she didn’t have one, but she didn’t feel like correcting him. “Well, what I mean . . . “ How could she put this delicately? “How common is it for someone to use a marlin spike for murder?” There, she’d said it. She’d picked the first murderous looking person she could find and asked him. Talk about profiling. She folded her hands to settle herself. Long John smelled of weed, beer and something else. Dead bodies? A chill ran down her spine.

  His eyes narrowed. “Listen, honey, I don’t murder people . . .” he hesitated a second, a long second. “. . .with marlin spikes.”

  She gulped. Was he saying he preferred other instruments? “I . . . I . . . I didn’t mean you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you. I just thought you might know. I mean do you know . . . Have you heard . . . of other people using them?” Sweet Jesus, she sounded lame, so lame that the dentist drill going full speed in the next room sounded oddly comforting.

  He breathed through his nose, which had black hairs sticking out of it, and looked at the ceiling with its painted, pastel giraffes. Then he put his hand to his sore jaw and spoke. “Nope.”

  Air rushed out of her. So the murderer was a boater, but not a regular murderer. Guess that made sense. “Thanks,” she said.

  “Don’t mean it isn’t a good weapon though,” he said in a slow, heavy voice. “It is sharp and all.”

  She nodded.

  He tilted his head. “You could keep it in your pocket and pull it out quick like a knife, but . . . “

  “But?” The short hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  “Why wouldn’t you just use a knife? A quick switchblade or even a pocket knife would be easier.” His eyes rested on hers. “Personally, I prefer guns.”

  That was too much information. She tried to smile. “Here, let me put some numbing solution on your gums, to prepare you for the needle.”

  “Needle? Fuck you. I didn’t say I wanted any mother-fucking needle. I just want the fucker yanked out. What kind of place is this? A torture hall?” He stood up, anger emanating from every pore of his sweaty body. His eyes narrowed. “And what’s with all the questions, bitch.” He tore off the paper bib on his chest and stood up. “Are you wired?” She didn’t realize how tall he was.

  Dr. Heatherington came running in—click-clack, click-clack—in her heels. Her Chanel scent rushed in with her. “What’s wrong?”

  Maggy lifted her arms helplessly and said, “I wanted to numb his gums.”

  The dentist shook her head. “We don’t use needles on Long John Black. It’s written on his charts in red. ‘No needle.’” She shouted in a shrill voice.

  The biker nodded and sat down. Doc Heatherington hovered over his mouth. Maggy forced herself to breathe. She touched him lightly on the shoulder to give him strength, but his volatility made her jumpy. As the dentist pulled on the tooth, Maggy heard a soft popping sound, as the tooth came out, and the smell of decay and infection swamped the room.

  Long John gave Maggy a funny look, and as he passed her on his way out he said, in a low voice only she could hear, “If you need to get rid of someone, call me.”

  She nodded as if he’d said a lovely goodbye. Now she had a murderer with a nasty beard at her disposal. Not many women could say that.

  [i] Wilhelm Baynes, The I Ching, Princeton University Press, New Jersey, 1967, p. 629.

  27

  From Rita’s Diary:

  I hate that vile woman. The sadist. The bitch.<
br />
  I Hate. Hate. Hate her. Her real name is Mabel Skottowe and she came with her husband from Florida. Somehow she lost him and has become Brother XII’s woman. His second in command. That red-headed bitch has taken control. I swear she’s the devil’s sister.

  She changed her name legally to Zura de Valdes and insists we all call her Madame Zee. Brother XII is totally taken with her and changed his name to Amiel de Valdes. Has everyone gone crazy? They are having a new community built on Valdes Island to the north.

  It’s not just me who hates her. Everyone does. She is a sadist, spends most of her days ordering people around with a black leather whip on her hip. There are rumors she locks some people away in small cabins in the bush. I hide from her as much as I can and hope Eddie will become his old self again.

  Mary Connolly lost most of her money in the stock market crash, so the scrawny, red-headed bitch banished her from our headquarters along with twelve others who’d run out of money.

  The rumors are terrifying. Madame Zee imprisoned and beat a man for not working hard enough on the buildings. He broke free, found a boat and rowed himself to Vancouver Island. He told the police and they made a record of it, but nothing was done. We’re too far away for them to police. Madame Zee has to be stopped.

  Our once peaceful community is falling apart, and it’s all her fault. People want Madame Zee gone. They want the old Brother XII back. They also want to know what’s happening to their life savings. They’re tired of being put to hard labor and being yelled at. There’s a lot of complaining. I don’t know what to do.

  Would my family take me back now? I’m no longer an innocent virgin.

  I tried reading Eddie’s third book, but I threw it in the fire before I finished it. I couldn’t help my anger. If the spirits are guiding him why is he acting so strangely? This was supposed to be a loving home for us all, a place where we could develop spiritually, safe from the outside world, a refuge in an evil world. But it’s turning into hell itself.

  I had started packing my bag when I heard him at my door. He asked me to take a beach walk in the moonlight. I couldn’t resist being in his arms again. And I thought maybe he would explain to me why he chose to spend time with such a vile woman, and I would ask him if he realized the community is falling apart.