Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  The man nodded. “Sure.” The man’s tone spoke volumes. Without words he said he thought the whole exercise was stupid. Another example of white-man’s law.

  ***

  An hour later Dudley returned to take his seat on the other side of his boss’s desk. “What?” Peterson asked.

  “Is there anything you want me to do?” There was an eagerness mixed with urgency in the young man’s voice that grated on his nerves like an out of tune violin. What did this guy eat for breakfast? The muscles in the young man’s face tensed in the growing silence. He was ready for action, keen to look under the carpet of evil.

  Peterson winced. His headache was hell and he’d been looking under that carpet too long, to be keen about it.

  “Sir?” the constable said.

  Tapping his desk with his broken pencil, Peterson stared at the Escher print on his wall, taking a moment of comfort in its endless, intertwined patterns. “I’m missing something,” he said at last.

  Dudley’s eyes widened.

  “It all comes down to motive. Why was Jimmy Daniels killed?”

  “Number One: Brother XII’s gold.” Dudley pointed to the white board where they’d listed four possibilities.

  “Could be. And then our suspects are everyone who knew Jimmy was involved in Edgar Whitley’s search. We now know that includes almost all the fishermen on the west coast of Canada.” Peterson rubbed the spot between his eyes.

  “Two: Ownership of The Black Cat Blues Bar?” said Dudley.

  “Yes, another possibility. The suspects are: Clarence, Joe, Maggy Malone, the third partner, and Logan Daniels.”

  “Three: Old jealousies?” The constable bit the side of his lip. “That’s new.”

  “I added that one this morning. Brothers don’t always get along.” Only one suspect for that motive.

  “And four, the last one, is: Unknown.”

  “Someone out there may have a motive we don’t know about yet. I figure a good looking stud like Jimmy Daniels must have bruised a few hearts along the way.”

  Dudley blinked.

  Could the man be that unworldly? “It happens.” Peterson assured him. He looked back at the Escher print. “Some women want more from a man than he’s ready to give.” His eyes followed a stairway up and around, up and around. . . to nowhere.

  “I want you to go through those boxes again, and see if you can find anything tying her to Brother XII. I’m going to talk to Maggy Malone. She’s the one common denominator in all of this.”

  When Dudley left the room with a box in hand, Peterson pulled out his cell and sent a text to Maggy: “No sign of the journal in Edgar’s things. Any idea where it could be? Come see me. Now.”

  43

  Everything in the universe has a rhythm, everything dances. Maya Angelou

  Maggy got the inspector’s text. He hadn’t found the journal and worse, she had to go visit him again. Wait. Would he know if she got his text? She had nothing to tell him, anyway. She clicked off her phone. She’d plead ignorance. Yeah, like that’s going to help with a cop.

  A deep sense of foreboding slithered through her blood and kept trying to get into her head. But it only made her angry. Where the hell was the murderer? She had better things to do with her life than play hide and seek with the devil. She wanted to face the bastard, once and for all.

  Logan had phoned that he needed to hang with his dad and meet relatives coming in from all over the country. The funeral had been planned for tomorrow and a celebration of life the following day. Maggy thought she’d go to the celebration. It seemed the least she could do for the man who’d died in her arms.

  Having taken a personal leave of three days from the dentist office she still had two free. Mei left last night to visit her grandfather in Maple Ridge who had pneumonia and needed help. Hunter was busy organizing Rat hunts. She really needed space from him right now anyway. Napoleon, the dog she walked, had been put in quarantine for some weird virus. Joe said he wanted to be alone to, “sort through stuff.” She’d see him later tonight at the club. So Maggy was alone with her thoughts, the crappy, dark feeling and her anger. Great. . . just great.

  She picked up her guitar and tunes scrolled through her mind, but none seemed to fit her mood. She put it down and picked up her iPad. She googled Brother XII. Ever since Jimmy cast his feral gaze on her at the bar, she had been having weird prescient feelings. The idea that it could have something to do with the old cult leader nagged her. A silly thought, but she would never know the truth unless she looked into it.

  Maybe the brother and his black magic had somehow connected to her feelings and everything that was happening. Stranger things had happened in Vancouver.

  First, she read articles about the growth of theosophical groups in the early twentieth century and how their esoteric beliefs in the relationship between man and the divine fuelled Brother XII’s sermons and books.

  She read document after document. They all told the basically the same stories about the cult leader, with different embellishments. Facts were few. Later in his life, after meeting theosophists, Edward Arthur Wilson became the cult leader Brother XII. He claimed he had a connection to a spiritual guide on another plane and talked about visions that included ancient Egyptian symbols.

  Yeah right.

  She rotated her shoulders, trying to ease her tension. Mei and her belief in the I Ching had taught her not to be skeptical of everything. What if some of the spiritual stuff was true? According to Wikiwit Theosophy went way back to three hundred years before Christ. Could all those people who believed in it, century after century, be wrong? What if spirits were playing with her? A chill crawled up her spine.

  She rolled her head around and tried to shake out that thought. The hokey stuff gave her a headache. Maybe she’d become the butt of a nasty, karmic joke. The Greek concept of warring gods toying with humanity suddenly felt close and personal. She imagined a handsome, naked god standing above her and proclaiming, “Let’s shower her with dead bodies.” Laughing at her own black humor felt good.

  Someone knocked on her door. Maggy jumped. She pulled her silk robe around her body and went to the security window. It was Smokey with a man she didn’t know. But any friend of Smokey’s should be okay.

  When the door partly opened, Smokey breezed in. The man followed. Maggy took a step back and motioned for them to sit down.

  “I need to talk to you Maggy,” said Smokey, taking off her Canucks toque and not sitting. “This here’s Gil. He’s been docked at the marina for the last week and he’s had a good view of your houseboat. Says he’s seen some interesting things.”

  The man nodded Something about him made her want to gag. Maybe it was his rotting fish smell. Maggy tried to breathe through her mouth. In his forties, the guy wore loose, grubby jeans, a yellow rain jacket that looked as if it had seen a century of storms, and fisherman rubber boots. Brown hair with gray streaks hung out the bottom of his toque and he had a mole near his upper lip. But what bothered her even more than his smell was the way his eyes slunk away when she looked directly at him. Talk about rotting fish in Vancouver. She rotated her shoulders again.

  “So what did you see?” Maggy asked.

  “Some guy’s been hangin’ around your place. Dressed all in black.” His voice was stone cold and utilitarian, like the girders under a bridge, capable of holding together sentences but not emotion. Maggy’s creep-sense blared. Why did she dislike this guy so much? It would be nice if Smokey had a regular man. It might improve her temperament. If ever a woman needed a good screw it was Smokey.

  “Tell her the rest,” commanded Smokey more with her steely eyes than her words.

  “Last night.” He stopped and looked around the room.

  Why the infatuation with my décor? “Yeah—” she said.

  “Durin’ the storm, he was outside peering in your window.”

  Maggy looked at the window he pointed to. The venetian blinds weren’t new, but they did give her privacy. The guy
in black wouldn’t be able to see much.

  “Was he there for very long?”

  “’Bout ten minutes, that I saw.” His smile revealed a chipped, side tooth and tobacco stained teeth. Some people shouldn’t smile. “The guy circled the house, looked again, then left.”

  She had thought someone was lurking outside. Her scalp tingled. “Can you tell me anything more about him?”

  Gil frowned for a moment. “Sorry. I looked, cuz I thought he might be the Rat, but then I figured he was just a Peeping Tom, so I went back to watching the hockey game.” He grimaced. “Figure a good looking woman like you has lots of men watching her.”

  “Good game,” said Smokey.

  The Canucks must have won. “Tall, short, anything?” Maggy asked.

  “Medium, smaller than me, wore a raincoat.”

  Not a lot of help. “Wait. How did you know he wasn’t the Rat?” There had to be something that distinguished the guy.

  A slow smile spread across Gil’s whiskered face. “Just a feelin’, I guess.” He scratched his chin. Was that dried egg stuck in his hair?

  “I mean,” continued Gil, “ he wasn’t planting any bombs, or starting fires. He wasn’t even taking pictures. He was just looking. Stupid thing to do in the rain if you ask me, and I wouldn’t have bothered saying anything except. . .” He stopped.

  “Except I told him to,” said Smokey. “I thought you should know. That murderer of yours has done a hat trick already and I don’t want him taking you out with one of his marlins.”

  “Is this place safe?” asked Gilbert.

  “Uh-huh,” Maggy answered, still stuck with the image of a bloodied marlin spike.

  “Windows secure?”

  Did she want to have this conversation? She hesitated.

  “I know a lot about security. I help people fix up their places when I’m not fishing. I could take a look around.” His eyes scanned the room like a professional.

  Maggy tried to remember where Logan had flung her thong. “Uh, I have a security advisor,” she said. Boy did that sound odd. She had an advisor? But it was true, sort of. Logan was in the security business.

  The fisherman’s hooded eyes caught hers. He grumbled. What was with men grumbling today?

  Another knock on the door. And when did her place become Grand Central Station?

  Peterson strode into the room with his cop gait. Guess she’d forgotten to fully close it. The fall wind gusted in after him. A freaking circus. Would life ever get normal?

  “Maggy.” The gruffness in his voice made her want to change her name.

  “Inspector Peterson, let me introduce you to. . .” She turned towards Gil, but he’d slunk back, clearly not wanting to take part in a “meet and greet” with a cop. Interesting. He probably sold more than fish on his boat. That certainly wasn’t uncommon on the coast.

  “Not now. I need to talk to you. Alone.” Peterson’s words echoed as if they were in a tomb.

  Smokey harrumphed and glared at the cop as she turned towards the door. Her man friend followed her out like a stray puppy who had found a new food source. Just plain weird, that one. And his smell. She waved them good-bye.

  Maggy turned to Peterson and balled her fists. “They were my guests and you dismissed them like fleas on a dog’s back. That’s just not right. People who make other people feel small really piss me off.”

  He chuckled and looked down his nose. “I’m sorry if I interrupted your social life, but I need to find a murderer. And you didn’t answer my text.”

  “You don’t have time to be human?” She couldn’t resist.

  The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Has Logan talked to you at all about his brother?”

  “Some.”

  “Did they have a good relationship?”

  She let out a long, slow breath. Was she being asked to tattle on her lover? The last thing she wanted to do was say something that would make him look guilty.

  “Ms. Malone.”

  “Considering my options, sir.”

  A slow grin softened his features. “The clock is ticking.”

  “I need a coffee,” she said stretching. Her home had become a revolving doorway of people coming in and out, and the pain growing between her eyes told her she’d forgotten her mid-morning caffeine hit.

  His square jaw hardened, and his eyes stared her down. “Maggy.”

  She wasn’t going to let him win, totally, so she talked as she headed over to the kitchen counter and pulled out her coffee machine. “The Daniels boys were close from beginning to end. Logan’s grieving hard. I don’t think there’s any point looking further there.”

  “Clarence. How do you feel about Clarence?”

  Out of the blue? This guy had interesting interrogation techniques. “Aw… ful,” she said in an unsteady voice that broke half-way. “And I haven’t had the time to sit down and properly sort out my feelings and pay him proper respect. There’s too much blood in the way.”

  “Do you feel in danger?”

  “Shit, yeah.” The on button switched to red and she waited, smelling the coffee as it brewed. The aroma comforted her, but did nothing for her queasy gut.

  “Where’s Logan?”

  “With family.”

  “Hunter?”

  “Looking for the Rat. They both check on me with texts and calls. Why?”

  Peterson’s mouth turned down.

  “I want you to come into my office with me. We’re going to go over your first statement of what happened the night of Jimmy’s murder. I want to see if you remember something you left out, like a smell, or a shadow. Anything. It’s the details that will lead us to the killer.”

  “The police station? Again?”

  “Maggy.” He looked down his nose. Not good.

  “I haven’t had my coffee.” She ran a hand through her tangled mane. She needed some time for herself. “Or my morning shower.”

  Peterson did his cop shrug.

  She glared at him.

  “Put it in a travel mug.”

  44

  Did you know that our soul is composed of harmony? Leonardo Da Vinci

  Gilbert slammed the cabin door of his boat. Pretending he cared about Smokey and the dock Rat pissed him off, big time. The crazy hippies on this dock deserved fires. They weren’t normal, for Christ’s sake, not like people further north, or on the islands. They were city assholes who liked their coffee with foam and their food green.

  He’d spent two hours walking around the docks checking on boats with Smokey. He needed her for now, so he’d kept a smile plastered on his face. She ranted on about who should be the starting goalie in the next Canucks game. There was only one choice: Alberto. Anything else was suicide, but he let her rant and said nothing. Bile rose in his throat.

  Finally, when he couldn’t take the hockey banter any longer, he said, “Smokey,” in as soft a voice as he could muster. “I need a break.”

  “A break?” She lifted her eyebrow.

  “Yeah. I got an aching hip, an old injury from my time in Afghanistan.” It was the truth.

  Her eyes softened. “Okay. Thanks for coming this far.”

  “Not a problem. We got to keep each other safe, after all.”

  She nodded and a smile warmed her weathered face. Then she cupped him, and he stepped back out of her reach. “Later,” he said. The woman knew how to get her point across, but he had had enough of her for one day.

  Smokey headed over to the Blue Heron Marina. He waved to her, and then went back to the Shady Lane dock with the houseboats. It was a perfect time to check out Maggy’s place. She’d left with the cop in an unmarked car ten minutes ago.

  He needed to see the chart rolled up on her kitchen table. It could be a treasure map with an “x” marked on it. Limping to stay in character, he moved down the old wooden dock.

  When he got to her houseboat he tried the door. Locked. He felt above it and found the key. After h
e looked in every direction and felt confident no one was watching him, he opened the door and went inside.

  It smelled of Maggy, sweet and saucy. What a bitch. He knew her kind. They teased men. Hell, even the way she walked hardened him. He didn’t want to have to hurt her, but he would if she got in his way. He sat at her kitchen table and opened the roll of charts.

  On top lay a chart numbered 3310-Sheet 4, Porlier Pass to Departure Bay. Large area. Most of the chart showed Gabriola Island. Hmmm. Close to Decourcy Island where Brother XII had his commune. It was possible he took the gold there.

  He scanned the chart and the ones beneath. They were all connected to Gabriola. But none of them had an x marking the spot.

  And the cop had Maggy. What if she remembered something? What if she actually saw him the night he killed Jimmy?

  Could he kill a woman? Hell, at this point what difference did it make? One murder, two . . . man or woman. His ship was headed straight to hell anyway. No saving his fucked-up soul.

  But then he had known he had no chance of living a righteous life after Afghanistan. The image of the carnage he’d wreaked drifted into his head. His throat tightened. Fuck it. I’m going to live my life.

  Before he danced with Satan he’d have fun. Live the high life. All he needed was the gold. He’d show them. He’d show them all. No one would look down on him again. He would have everything he wanted. Scratching his beard he released the edges of the chart and it rolled back up.

  He searched the kitchen and living room. Nothing. Climbing the ladder to her loft he scanned the lower floor. He checked it all, every nook and cranny.

  In the loft, the bed was covered in a mess of blankets, tangled sheets and pillows that spoke of a busy night. On the left side table sat a bunch of stuff. Kleenex and a box of condoms. Then something black on the floor caught his eye. It was a leather wallet.

  Opening it he found Logan’s driver’s license, credit cards and one picture. He pulled it out. A cute little girl missing a front tooth with a wide smile. He turned it over “Hugs and kisses, Daddy, love Sasha,” was printed on the back. “November.” Taken this month. He flipped to the other side. Under her cherub face was the school name: St. Mary’s Elementary, and below that her home address. Bingo. Taking a deep breath, he stared into her bright little eyes. Did he have the balls?