by Marc Strange
“I don’t know where he is, Joe.”
The dog trails her closely and watches me likewise. She goes inside and leaves the door open for me to follow. I step into the front hall but leave it at that. She’s in the middle of the sedate living room with the protective wolf-dog guarding her knees.
“I’ve told the police. I haven’t seen him or heard from him for months. Janice, or whoever it is he’s living with —”
“Janine.”
“Her. She’d have a better idea where he might be.”
“Adele, I’m trying to find him before he does something really stupid.”
“Stupider than shooting somebody?”
“He says he didn’t do it.”
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“He phoned me. He didn’t say where he was. While he was on the phone I heard a ferry whistle. Does he know anyone off the mainland, on the big island maybe, or one of the other ones? Or the Sunshine Coast? Anyone up there?”
“His mother lives in Duncan. The police know that. If he went there, they’ll already have him.”
“That’s it? His mother?”
“Oh, Lord, I don’t know. I don’t know who his friends are, or if he even has any friends anymore.”
“You ever take a ferry ride with him?”
“No. Well, not for years. We went to Victoria once. Years ago. It was nice. Well, the hotel was nice. But he wouldn’t be hiding out at the Empress, would he?”
“Not likely.”
“We used to go over to the big island on Lloyd’s boat. Haven’t done that for years, either. Picnics. Day sailing. Couple of times overnight. Anchor in a cove. I’ll say this for Lloyd. He tried. He really tried.”
“Does Lloyd still have a boat?”
“I think so.”
“Do you know where he keeps it?”
“He always picked us up somewhere. Horseshoe Bay Marina, the Bayshore, I don’t know where he had it. That was such a long time ago.”
“Thanks, Adele. I have to go. I’ll let you know when I find him. I’m going to make things as easy for him as I can.”
“He killed somebody. I just know it. I hate that son of a bitch so much you couldn’t even begin to know how much I despise him.” As her voice rises and her anger becomes manifest, the wolf-dog’s ruff gets thicker and his ears begin to flatten. “His daughter won’t speak to him. She thinks he’s a loser. Isn’t that a great way to think about your dad? She’s eleven and she calls her father a loser!” Henry moves towards me slowly, dropping his shoulders like a good fighter. “And if he’d made even a token effort … She’s got a good heart. She would have met him halfway.”
“Adele, I’ve got to go.”
Outside, the cell phone defeats me again. Battery problems, big-fnger problems, ineptitude — I can’t make the damn thing work. I find a pay phone on a corner with a view of English Bay: whitecaps rolling in, high tide hitting the rocks, strong wind tearing the spray. I call Margo.
“Lloyd Gruber’s boat. Do you know where it is?”
“Joe? Where the hell are you?”
“I’m doing my job, Margo. I need to know where Lloyd keeps his boat.”
“How should I know?”
“You’re in his office right now, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Look across the room. What do you see?”
“Okay, there’s a painting of a boat.”
“Cross the room and look closely at the stern of the boat.”
“Joe! What in heaven’s name is going on?”
“I’m trying to find Arnie.”
“Why? That’s for the police to handle. You have no business —”
“Margo, go and look at the painting. Do it right now, please, because I have no time to waste.”
“All right, all right. It says … wait … Emily Blue.”
“Bingo. Is there a word underneath Emily Blue?”
“Yes. It’s Nanaimo.”
“Thank you. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Joe?”
“Yes, Margo?”
“Don’t do anything crazy, okay? Don’t be a big he-man hero guy.”
“Not me, kid. I’m retired.”
chapter twenty-four
The crossing from Horseshoe Bay to Vancouver Island takes two hours. The ferry sails into Departure Bay, Nanaimo, at 9:34 p.m., according to my Rolex Skyrocket. It’s dark as I drive off the Queen of Cowichan. As soon as I can, I get out of the traffic surge and find a service station. I fill up, check the tires, and decide I can live with the front left five pounds under where it should be. Inside the convenience store I pay for the gas and get a map of the area. The woman behind the counter shows me where the marinas are: the big one at Departure Bay, the one behind the hotel, the one farther down the coast, the one farther down … I should be able to spend the night looking at marinas.
I start with Departure Bay. The wharfinger is helpful.
“Never heard of it,” he says.
That was simple. Next on the list is Newcastle Marina, and I luck out. I don’t have to ask anyone anything. I see Emily Blue, out of the water, upright on a cradle, protective blue plastic tarp covering the wheelhouse and cockpit. I park the car and take a walk around the boat. It’s impressive standing on its keel. The waterline on the hull is above my head. There’s no ladder hanging down. No light. I rap on the hull. Fibreglass. There’s no echo. I’m not reaching high enough.
“Don’t think it’s for sale,” a voice behind me says.
I turn to see a nautical pair. The man is lean and creased and bald as a brown egg. The woman has short-cropped silver hair and rosy cheeks. They both wear yellow-and-blue sailing togs and look as if retirement agrees with them.
“Must be rough out there,” I say.
“We ran for home hours ago,” the man says.
“I’m not looking to buy it,” I say. “I know the owner.”
“Lloyd’s not around,” the woman says. “They went on a cruise.”
“That’s right. He’s my boss. He’ll be coming back this week. He asked me to check on things, make sure she was all right.”
“Was he worried about something?” the man asks.
“Not really. He’s been away for two weeks. It’s his first real vacation in almost ten years, and I think it made him a bit nervous being away. You know how he is.”
“He’s anal-retentive.”
“His laces are pretty tight,” I say.
“Man doesn’t know how to relax. He had us over for a barbecue one night last year and never stopped fussing with things — the propane, the citronella buckets, the bug zapper, the smoke alarm…”
“I’ve never been to his place,” I say. “Hear he’s got a great view of the city from up there.”
“Up where?” the man asks.
“West Van,” I say.
“I meant the cottage,” the man says.
“On Gabriola,” the woman adds.
As it turns out, anal-retentive Lloyd Gruber is also antisocial Lloyd Gruber. I sure as hell have never been invited for a weekend of sailing and barbecue at his secret hideaway on a Gulf Island. But then I’ve never been invited to his home in the city, either. Lloyd and I aren’t exactly friends. He’s been general manager for six or seven years now, since Abe Victor retired with great ceremony. Abe was GM of the Lord Douglas for twenty-five years, respected by the staff, appreciated by the guests. Lloyd, his assistant for eight of those years, stepped into a big pair of shoes.
The last ferry to Gabriola is 10:55 p.m. The first one back to Nanaimo in the morning leaves at 5:45. I’m going to be there overnight. I’ll have to find a motel. The pay phone near the ferry dock has an intact phonebook. He’s listed: “Gruber, Seagirt Road.”
The phone rings four times on the other end, then the answering machine clicks on and I hear Lloyd’s unctuous, hesitant tones. “You have reached the Gruber residence. If you wish to, ah, leave a message for Jennifer, Christian, Scott, or Lloyd, do so at the tone
, and, ah, please, the time of your call, as well. Thank you.” Then a beep.
“This is Joe Grundy. Arnie, are you there? Pick up the phone if you’re there.” Nothing. “Arnie, I’m coming over on the next ferry. Pick up, Arnie.” I listen to dead air until the closing beep cuts me off.
What the hell I’m doing on a ferry to Gabriola Island on a dark and stormy night is a question for which I have only the most basic answer — checking Lloyd’s cottage. Arnie could be halfway through Alberta by now, heading for Montreal for all I know, but if that’s the case I’ve got no hope, anyway. I only get one idea per problem, and seeing it through is all I know how to do.
I sit behind the wheel on the open car deck as the Bowen Queen rocks and slaps its way past Protection Island and into the more serious chop of the open strait. Swells that were ignored by the big ferry from the mainland are giving this glorified water taxi a pounding. Salt spray rattles off the windshields of the first cars in line as I step out onto the deck. A few hardy souls — dedicated smokers — watch the lights of Nanaimo Harbour dwindling astern. A man with a dog stands near the bow, facing the wind and spray. He looks as if he’s enjoying the trip, chin up, legs apart, a come-and-get-me stance. The dog, a Chesapeake Bay retriever, stands the same way. She looks as if she’s enjoying everything, too.
“Getting rougher,” I say as I come up behind them.
The dog wags her tail and smiles at me. She’s in her element. The man turns his head. He has a black beard and impressive handlebar mustachios. “First real Squamish of the season,” the man says.
“Your dog seems to like it.”
“Like sticking her head out a big car window.”
“It’s my first time going over. My map’s a bit hard to read. I take the North Road to get to the North End?”
“No, no. You want Berry Point Road. Just up from the ferry you make a hard left. How far you going?”
“What is it? Ah, Seagirt Road.”
“That’s almost at the end. Almost to Berry Point. Only about five klicks. If you reach Surf Lodge, you’ve passed it.”
Half an hour later I’m passing Surf Lodge and searching for a place to turn around. I make my U-turn at a viewpoint ringed with broom and blackberries. From there I spot the lighthouse on rocky Entrance Island. The clouds are moving off the moon, the northern sky is clear and black, and Polaris is where it should be.
Then, half a klick back the way I came, Seagirt Road shows up as a tight right-hander down a dark lane lined with tall trees and gateposts. Lucky for me the residents are proud to announce their locations with personalized signs, and THE GRUBERS is easy to read on the lacquered cedar slab at the gate. The cottage beyond is dark, and I hear surf pounding against the rocky beach on the far side. I park the hotel car outside the unlocked gate, get out, and swing open the gate. The curved drive ahead is surfaced with cedar bark chips. Another car is half hidden under an arbutus tree. When I get closer, I see that its front seat is littered with candy bar wrappers and soiled paper napkins.
The building is timber-framed and one level. It faces the water with an expanse of glass, cedar shake roof, and native stone chimney, with a wooden deck overlooking the rocks and the open water. It’s dark inside. The sliding door is ajar, and I’m inside without much noise. I stand in the darkness for a moment, listening, sniffing the air like a night creature. There has been a fire in here recently. I can smell the lingering scent of wood smoke. After a moment, I make out the oversize fireplace at the end of the room. There’s a glow to the ashes.
“Are you there, Arnie? It’s Joe Grundy. I’m alone. No gun.”
No flashlight, either, of course. The peerless hotel dick wasn’t thinking too far ahead. But I find a light switch before long, and after that the search takes about twelve seconds. Arnie is sitting in a leather wing chair in front of the smouldering ashes in the hearth. A pistol lies on the floor near his right hand, and there’s an exit wound through the top of his skull. The bent and blackened metal frame skeleton of an attaché case is buried in the ashes. On the coffee table there’s an empty bottle of Wild Turkey. No glass.
The telephone is on the wall behind the kitchen island. I call 911, get put directly through to the island’s RCMP detachment. A firm voice tells me to wait by the front gate for the Mounties to get there. After that I stand in the middle of the room for a long moment, touching nothing, looking everywhere. There’s blood on the blade of the ceiling fan above Arnie’s head. There’s a broken glass at the back of the fireplace. There’s a brown McDonald’s bag stapled shut and clamped between Arnie’s splayed feet. I wonder about his last meal. Did he order the McNuggets or the Quarter Pounder with Cheese? Did he have fries with that?
I resist the further urge to scout the place for clues and evidence. None of my business, bad policy, and I probably wouldn’t know what I was looking at. When the RCMP cruiser shows up, I’m sitting in the hotel car with the door open, wishing I had one of Olive’s Winstons to drag on.
chapter twenty-five
The Mounties know all about Arnie. He’s been on their big list since he went missing. They don’t know a hell of a lot about me. I spend an hour explaining who I am and what I’m doing so far from home, after which I’m escorted to the Malaspina Motel and told to visit the detachment as soon as I get up. It’s 2:00 a.m. when I get my first look at a bed. The phone rings before I can take off the Burberry. It’s Weed.
“Hi there, Sherlock. What’s up?”
“I found him.”
“Oh, I know you found him. I had a long conversation with a certain Corporal Riggins, who seems mildly annoyed that some hotel dick stumbled over their body.”
“Sorry they woke you up.”
“Hey, they’re happy now. They’ve got a crime scene to process, evidence to collect. Don’t be surprised if your name isn’t mentioned in the press release.”
“That would suit me just fine.”
“Why didn’t you call me if you knew where he was?”
“I didn’t know where he was. I was looking for Lloyd Gruber’s boat. I thought Arnie might be aboard.”
“That was a good thought. You should have called me.”
“Gritch said the same thing.” I hate explaining myself, especially when I’m on shaky ground. “You know what you guys are like. I didn’t want you scaring people just because I had a half-baked idea.”
“It wasn’t that half-baked.”
“I wanted a chance to talk him into giving himself up.”
Silence on the other end of the line. I pull aside a cheesecloth curtain and see dark pines bending in the big wind sweeping up the strait.
“What did it look like to you?” Weed asks.
“The Mounties can give you a fuller report than I can.”
“In their own good time. I can get your version while it’s fresh. Did it look like a suicide?”
“Looked like he burned the attaché case and the money in the fireplace, then ate some takeout from McDonald’s, drank a full bottle of Lloyd’s bourbon, and had a bullet for dessert.”
“He burned the money?”
“The attaché case was in the fireplace pretty much burned up except for the frame. There were burned bits of hundred-dollar bills in the ashes, plus a broken glass.”
“How was the body positioned?”
“He was in a chair in front of the fireplace. Gun on the floor near his right hand. Small-calibre auto. I didn’t get close enough to see the make.”
“He right-handed?”
“I have to think.” I get a quick flash of Arnie signing his daily report. “Yep.”
“Make sense to you?”
“Suicide never makes sense to me,” I say. “I’m an ex-Catholic. Suicide is a sin.”
“Even for an ex-Catholic?”
“Especially for an ex-Catholic. Sin’s one of the few things you take with you when you leave.”
He laughs. “Thank God I’m agnostic.”
“The last time I talked to Arnie, when he called fr
om Horseshoe Bay, he sounded like he was working on a plan.”
“What? An escape plan?”
“He said … wait a second … he said … okay, I said something like, ‘Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.’ And he said, ‘I’m still trying to work out something.’ And I said there’s nothing to work out. Then he said there was something.”
“Something?”
“Like there was something else he could do, or something else he was trying to, I don’t know, wrangle.”
“I guess it didn’t work out,” Weed says.
I catch the 10:05 ferry off Gabriola and get to the terminal in Nanaimo just in time to watch the 10:30 departure to Horseshoe Bay heading out of the harbour into strong blue water. The next sailing is 12:30.
“Where the hell are you?” Gritch asks when I call.
“I’m in Nanaimo. I’ll be back at the hotel by, say, 2:45, something like that.” The Squamish has scoured all trace of grey from sea and sky. The air vibrates like crystal; the Strait of Georgia snaps whitecaps in the wind. To be dead and miss a morning like this. “Arnie’s dead. Looks like he shot himself.”
Silence for a few beats, then a heavy sigh on the other end. “Stupid bastard.”
“I’ve been talking to Mounties all morning.”
“What do they want?”
“I found the body.”
“Oh.” I hear a match flaring, a puff, a bronchial rumble. “You should have called Weed.”
“He agrees with you.”
“Stupid bastard.”
“Who? Me or Arnie?”
More puffs.
“You know,” he says, “those Moonlight guys aren’t Mormons, after all. They’re Presbyterians. That’s even worse. They take one look at you, they know you’re predestined for Hell. They don’t even bother to hand you a tract. Far as they’re concerned, you’re already doomed. It’s depressing.”
“Everything okay in the house?”
“You kidding? With the Calvinists marching, and the cops lurking, and Sergeant-Major Golden on parade, we’ve got nothing but model guests. It’ll be a relief to see Dan’s mopey face.”
