Twilight Is Not Good for Maidens

by Lou Allin

  Holly smiled. Thanks to her father, she was one of the only people under one hundred who knew what a flivver was. She wasn’t looking forward to seeing him at dinner to confirm the disappointing news about Bonnie’s tote bag. Each time he got his hopes up about her mother, everything melted down.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “This cute little car reminds me of Rudy’s,” said Beth. “Do all the police drive sports cars now?”

  Rudy had been right. Perhaps she had hidden resources, but it was amazing that Mrs. Jacobs managed to live alone. Who knew for how long? Holly reached over and helped the old woman fasten her seatbelt. “It’s my own car, ma’am. We’re a small detachment and our official vehicle stays here.”

  They drove along West Coast Road, Beth humming to herself. It sounded like “In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.” Perhaps it was her grandmother’s favourite because it was decades before her generation.

  “People have such teeny weeny cars today. I remember our green Packard Clipper. Les said that you could whack the fender with a hammer and do more harm to the hammer. Then he said if you scratched a modern car’s paint, the words Coca Cola showed through. What a joker. That man did make me laugh.”

  Holly found herself smiling. “My father might agree. He knows all the old models.” At least he bowed to realities and didn’t change his car to match his periods. His bank account appreciated the Smart’s 61 mpg.

  “Rudy is better than a son. He comes by once a week. Tops up my groceries, too. It’s hard to get by on a pension these days, and I only have the old age and the supplement. I didn’t work after we got married. Ladies didn’t then.”

  Leaving that statement to speak for itself, still she looked at Holly, who angled her eyes over for a second before an empty logging truck passed them en route to collecting the last toothpick. “Will Ellen be all right? Rudy said that she had a nasty shock. What happened? Did she take a fall? She wasn’t swimming, was she? The ocean is very dangerous. A friend of mine nearly drowned when she got swept off a ledge in Tofino. Storm watching. Why go asking for trouble? And then there’s the jellyfish.”

  Holly didn’t know how much to explain. Perhaps in her somewhat confused condition, it was best not to alarm the old woman. Rudy could deal with that.

  “A man was … .very rude to her. She seems to be recovered from her experience. She’s a strong girl. I’m sure Rudy will tell you all about it later.”

  “He did say so. I do like Ellen ever so much. His last girlfriend was very snooty. Butter wouldn’t melt, as they used to say.” Beth made a finger-under-nose gesture. “Ellen’s friendly. Rudy and she bring me pizza and we play rummy. I live so far from town that I don’t get to enjoy those special treats very much. The seniors bus still can’t find a driver.”

  “Have you lived here long?” Holly asked Beth. The old woman seemed to be humming again. On close inspection, she seemed to be in her late seventies from the way the flesh was beginning to recede from her bones.

  “All my born days, dear. Lester was a logger. Today they make them out to be so evil. In those days it wasn’t a dirty word, just an honest living. Timber built the island. Not far from my house they put up a pretty plaque to the old Emerson School. It was named after one of the early Icelandic settlers. Bush has got it all now. Everything grows so fast around here. Even the clear cuts spring up again with life.” She paused and her parchment cheeks fluttered. “I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

  At last Holly made a left onto Otter Point Road and drove a few miles, past the Dodo Farm and Forest Green Llamas and Alpacas to where Eaglecrest joined. “It’s the little blue bungalow on the right,” Beth said. “My husband and I built it in 1960. All electric. The best of everything. I told him that I wasn’t heating with the dratted wood anymore, no matter how cheap it was. He used to say that wood warms you three times, when you cut it, when you pile it, and when you bring it into the house. Filthy stuff. Enough fir splinters in my fingers for a Christmas tree.”

  Holly found herself missing her grandparents in Sudbury, who had passed a few years ago. Her mother’s people had died well before their time. Great Aunt Stella Rice had raised Bonnie herself.

  They pulled into a small yard. Once it had been well-landscaped. But now, only a husk of a garden with deer fence, an overgrown lilac, and a spindly rose bush remained. Someone had been keeping the wilderness at bay, but only on the margins. A ramshackle single garage had a sinking roof so thickly covered with moss that it maintained its own ecosystem. In the temperate rainforest, growth was fast. What was strange was a very large, fairly new boat trailer attached to an old Dodge Ram one-ton dually pickup at the rear. Perhaps Beth allowed someone to park it there. A neighbour or maybe Rudy. As a telecommunications manager he would have a reliable income. Their own bundled Shaw bill for cable TV, Internet, and phone of $180 a month indicated the company’s sizable profits.

  “I’ll see you inside and make sure you have everything you need,” Holly said, helping her out of the low-slung vehicle. As they went to the porch, Holly was pleased to see that the house was in good shape. At least Beth hadn’t become a hoarder. What looked like a scratching post sat by the door. “So you have a cat?” she asked as she took Beth’s elbow to help her up the steps. The woman had a bad hip, and from the gnarled hands, some arthritis. She rocked like a ship as she walked. Was she on a list for a replacement or toughing it out like so many old people?

  A sad voice answered, “I had three, but a mountain lion got Taffy and Buster last summer. Those cougars are dangerous. Bears I don’t fear. They go the other way if you make a fuss.” As she opened the door, a large tortoise shell ambled out. “Yertle,” she said. “That kid’s book I used to read to Rudy when he was a little guy.”

  As Holly knelt to pet it, she noticed that it was chewing with great difficulty, lips pulled back from the teeth. Conditioned to disciplining Shogun, who picked up every rotting fishbone on the beach, she said to Beth, “He’s eating something. What have you got, buddy? Something bad for you?” Grabbing the cat on the back of the neck like a good mother, she bent to take what he had spit up. It consisted of mashed up white fibres.

  Beth tsked and shook her head. “Another cigarette filter. He loves chewing them. I told Rudy to take his nasty butts to the garbage. Yertle gets up on counters and picks apart everything.”

  “Nicotine can be poisonous, and the filters, who knows what they’re made of? You wouldn’t want your cat to get sick.” Unrepentant, Yertle was pouncing after a small quail no bigger than half a golf ball. A final round of hatchlings. The quail flapped off the ground and headed for a low bush, leaving the cat switching its tail in frustration.

  “I think he’s immune by now. I’ve had Yertle for ten years. I’m just going to tell that boy that he can’t smoke in the house. Do you think he will get mad at me?”

  “Rudy seems very nice. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  Holly wasn’t trying to intrude, but sometimes a home visit had a larger calling. Underweight animals, those with hair mats and no grooming, often belonged to owners who needed help themselves. More than once, she’d seen a child who wasn’t being nurtured or a woman with a black eye. With discretion, she’d made sure that the right authorities were contacted. Her mother would have approved. The young, the weak, and the old needed advocates, if they didn’t realize it. The door wasn’t locked either, common in her neighbourhood, too.

  On a table inside the door was a package. “It’s my supper,” Beth explained, putting an appreciative hand on the foil. “Still warm. All I have to do is put it into the microwave. The cabbage rolls are especially tasty.”

  Holly looked around. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” The small living room had an old bulky twenty-one-inch television, a patched leather recliner, a sofa, and a curio cabinet with Beth’s treasures. A picture of an older man in waders with a rod in hand looked down from the mantel. The place was a time capsule for the fifties, but it was spotless, the oilcloth on the ta
ble shiny and free of crumbs. An army of pill and supplement bottles sat on a ledge above. An antique toaster, the kind that flipped the bread, was still in use, next to a jar of homemade jam.

  Beth said, “I’m fine now, dear. Thank you for the ride. May I offer you a coffee or tea?” Her careworn face begged for companionship. How lonely it would be living alone out here, even with a cat and visits from Rudy.

  “My father is expecting me, but thanks.”

  “Do you live with your father? How lovely. I never had any children of my own. That’s why Rudy is so important to me. What a blessing.”

  As Holly left, Beth grabbed a jar from a shelf and pressed it into her hand. “Take this, dear. It’s my new batch. Fresh off the blackberry bushes last month. Nature’s bounty.”

  At home in minutes, Holly grabbed a glass of buttermilk and a cheddar rice cake. By now the task force had been out to Sandcut Beach. Would they find Ellen’s precious coral necklace? Tire tracks from that mysterious red car? Surely with the girl’s description of her assailant, something would gel. Once this rape got into the papers, the pressure would be formidable to bring in resources from other detachments and set up a real task force. Closing the parks wouldn’t be an option. The island couldn’t be turned into an armed camp.

  Filling the hummingbird feeder as a few dive bombers came her way, she stood on the front deck in the waning light to collect her thoughts and watch the sun’s last apricot surrender. It looked so peaceful out there. And yet women weren’t safe.

  Out on the mighty strait, small fishing boats still trolled for halibut. A hundred-sixty-two pounder had had its picture in the paper this week. Choppy waves bounced the boats about, yet they were sturdy little things with high cabins like cockpits. Her neighbours Jackie and Bryan were hooking up their boat trailer to their vintage Ford 350 Diesel, which sounded like a combination of a tank and a backhoe. Coming down to the property line, she stopped to chat.

  “Is that it for the season?” she asked. They kept their boat at Jock’s Dock, the closest marina.

  “You bet. I start my work at the hatchery making babies.” Bryan belonged to the Salmon Enhancement Society, which sounded kindly and progressive but basically gutted female fish, scooped the roe, and put it in beds for fertilization. Brutal for the female, but no worse than spawning upstream until she dropped of exhaustion and became food for bears and eagles. “No fry left behind” was their motto.

  Holly returned inside to find supper in the fridge thanks to her father, who had a late seminar. She took the glass plates from the fridge and popped them into the oven for his return. Sockeye salmon, scalloped potatoes, and carrots. Most women would have treasured him, but these domestic qualities never impressed her mother. Doing good for people was her mantra, and teaching useless courses did not make the grade. But she never used the “those who can’t do, teach” observation. “Norman may live in the clouds, but he’s a damned good father. I’ll give him that,” Bonnie admitted.

  When he got home later with the dog, Holly was in the solarium reading and highlighting a chapter from Blood Spatter Pattern Analysis, a textbook best consumed well outside of mealtime.

  He went to the kitchen table where she had placed the canvas tote bag. Reverently he touched it and looked down the stairs at her. “It’s your mother’s all right. I thought I’d never …” Nikon’s name was printed on the side along with an embroidered German shepherd image. This wasn’t the same as the raven pendant, where a kernel of doubt waited. There were thousands like it, maybe a few with that same scratch, skeptical police had told her. The tote was unique.

  She filled him in on more than the basics which she had left on his answering machine at the office. “I’ve tried calling this Port Angeles man, but no one answers. He may be out of town.”

  He cracked the knuckles on one hand, a nervous habit. “It’s been a bad day all around. Seems like it comes in bunches. I have the last word on Samantha Buckstaff. Might as well spit it out.”

  What did he mean by the last word? “Spit it out” didn’t sound promising. She looked up from her book with some concern. Would Chipper never come back? Sexual assault was a felony, after all.

  In clear defeat, not like the cocky attitude he often assumed to make her laugh, his shoulders sagged on his lean body with the tiniest hint of a pot. He wore gabardine pants, a white shirt, and a diamond patterned sweater like Mickey Rooney as Andy Hardy. “Vice President Buckstaff has upped the ante, I’m afraid. With the financial situation so tenuous, that poor anthro bugger who reported Samantha’s efforts to blackmail him is in dangerous territory.”

  Holly’s heart sank. “How so? I thought you were sure you could get him to talk.”

  He shook his head. “Not with his tenure coming up this year. Nor the other person in the drama department who had the same experience. Buckstaff has threatened to cut the annual play as a budget control method. They lose money every year. University theatres don’t turn a profit. It’s a question of tradition. The infant phenomenon is going to prevail. Damn shame. You know what they say about academia.”

  “Right, it’s so vicious because the stakes are so small.” But were they? Her father made over $110,000 and had premium benefits.

  “I was so hopeful,” she said, heading for the kitchen with him.

  “So was I. I guess I led you on with my ego. That’s what I get for boasting. Pride goeth before a fall,” he said, tossing back his head in a leonine gesture.

  “Hey, you tried. Chipper will have to fight this on his own. It was a long shot anyway.”

  “How did that salmon look? Jackie caught a thirty pounder today and brought it over. I used Bryan’s recipe, spreading mayo and mint on top.”

  Everything went well with salmon. It was even sold candied. The sockeye run up the Fraser had been the best since 1910. At least something was thriving along with the banana slugs. He dished out the food onto their plates, and she took them to the table. The ever-present bottle of homemade wine appeared. White. The greater of two evils.

  “I have some good news of my own. We could use it.” She told him about the possible break in the case thanks to Ellen Hughes.

  “That’s what I needed to hear. What a price for that young lady, though.” He raised a glass to her. “I knew my little girl would make the island safe again.”

  Holly couldn’t help smiling. “I had nothing to do with it, Dad. And anyway, even if we have a description, there’s no guarantee that the guy will be caught. I’ve told you the ratio of solved murders to unsolved.”

  He forked into the salmon and chewed thoughtfully. Shogun got the skin as a special treat, smacking his black lips over his bowl. Holly gently took a bone from the salmon and placed it at the side of her plate. Her cousin Terry had once helped her make a lure using a fish bone. Once, the fish came in such numbers that they could be scooped into the canoes. Even hundreds of years ago, the First Nations knew where to put their river seines.

  “After all the details that she told us, I am worried about Ellen being our star witness. I hope the police are watching her. On the other hand, if I were this guy, I would be long gone if I thought someone who had seen me was still alive and talking.”

  Norman put down his utensils and took a restorative drink of wine. “That sounds quite ruthless. That someone would be afraid to testify. What a shameful blot on the justice system. It reminds me of the mafia. Where’s Elliot Ness when you need him?”

  She savoured the last juicy morsel. If there was anything this side of heaven, it was salmon. “You have to think like he does. He’s a killer, and it might not be the first time.”

  “You mean a serial killer? I wasn’t thinking of those ramifications.”

  She felt a bit ashamed of leading him on. There had been only one death … that they knew of. Yet had that M.O. been checked across the country? Ed would be onto that. It wouldn’t be the first time that a rapist or killer struck several times, stopped for a couple of years, then started again. Usually it wasn’t a
case of mere self-control. Often they moved or were even in jail on other charges. “Maybe I’m overstating things. One is enough for now. There aren’t that many missing women on the island that …” Her voice drifted off and she saw him swallow.

  “What can it mean, your mother’s bag being on the ferry? Turning up after all these years. There’s providence at work here,” he said.

  When her mother first disappeared, Holly never had believed that more than a decade would pass. “Logistically, it makes no sense at all. Like the pendant turning up in someone’s car.” The young man at a car wash who had sucked it up in a vacuum had given it to a thrift shop, where it had stayed unsold for months. He didn’t remember anything about the car, so that had been a dead end.

  Her cousin Terry had worked for the small island airline whose flights her mother had used to relocate abused women. If he had in his possession even the smallest piece of information that could lead to the truth, she wanted to know. She’d been trying to reach him to fill in the blanks on her mother’s last known days. He was still in the Yukon, out of reach.

  Then the phone rang. “Pardon me,” she said. Her father moved off to the solarium with his coffee.

  “Guv, it’s me!”

  Her knees nearly failed her. “Chipper! Ann and I have been trying to reach you. How the hell are you doing?” Was this a good sign or was another blow on the way?

  He cleared his throat. “It’s no picnic. They have me down in the basement at West Shore going through cold cases.” He sneezed. “I think I’m allergic to the dust.”

  “Is there any word on your hearing? How long is this going to take?”

  There was a long pause. “Weeks. Months. I don’t know. I had a thought. Did you ask your dad about Mr. Buckstaff? The university’s big, but I …”

  How could she tell him that her plan hadn’t worked? The realities of finance over justice prevailed. Best not to even mention it and look like they’d failed. “Not very well. Buckstaff’s a VP. They don’t travel in the same circles. He has a lot of power, I’ll tell you that much. We thought we had something on the girl, but it fell through.”