by Louise Clark
The show's format was three interviews in each quarter hour, then ten minutes of news, weather, and sports. The first interview of this segment had been a city councilor, the second the actor. He'd just settled down to watch the third when the howling started again. This time it was accompanied by the thump of a body being thrown against a hard surface.
Roy frowned. The thump sounded as if it had come from the vicinity of his front door. He decided he'd better go down and investigate.
When he opened the door, the cat strutted inside. Took you long enough!
Roy shut the door and followed him up the stairs. He found the cat sitting on the sofa, tail lashing back and forth.
Your son is after my wife!
Roy considered that as he sat down in a chair that matched the oversized sofa. On the television, the guest was now a man who had invented a new form of lighting and was hawking it to the world, starting with local cable programming. The fellow was about as lively as a sloth in the sunshine, but concentrating on him had a lot more appeal than counseling a dead man who was mad at his son for taking away the man's woman.
The female host said something chipper and bounced in her seat. Inspiration hit Roy. "Would you look at that?" he said. "Isn't she something?"
She certainly is stacked.
They both contemplated the screen for a time. Roy began to hope that he'd successfully diverted the cat's attention away from thorny emotional problems. Then the inventor launched into a long-winded description of his wonderful new lighting system and the floodgates opened.
They did it in front of me.
Roy opened his eyes wide. "Really? My Quinn and your wife? You know, Frank, you're pushing your credibility with this one. They both know you're living in the cat. I can't see Quinn being that uninhibited."
They did it after we'd talked to the cop. I think Christy was mad at me. She probably believed all those rumors that Brianne and I were lovers.
"Could be," Roy said cautiously.
None of them were true. Not one. Yet they kept coming out. One of the trustees must have been feeding them to the press.
Roy looked at the cat. It crouched on the sofa, looking dejected. "You really are in the dumps, aren't you?"
No one ever believed I was a decent guy at heart. They always looked at what was on the surface. The only one who cared was Christy, and now she's abandoned me.
On the TV screen the inventor had given way to a guy in a suit jacket doing the sports segment. Roy ignored him. "What happened to letting go and helping others to understand?"
It's harder than it looks.
"Well, yeah. I'm with you there." Roy almost felt sorry for the cat. Almost, but not quite. "So what's wrong with my Quinn as a mate for your Christy?"
He's a reporter.
"And a damn good one."
He's moving in on her too fast. She hasn't had time to mourn me yet.
"You've been gone for months, Frank. And it sounds like there wasn't much to your marriage for some time before that." The news headlines came on. The reader was a young woman with bright golden hair and an annoying voice that couldn't quite be tuned out.
I tried.
"Not hard enough," Roy said crisply.
I loved her.
"You loved drugs and partying more." Roy spared a brief moment of reflection for those years when partying and psychedelic drugs like LSD had been a prime focus of his own life. He'd dumped both when he met Vivien, and he didn't regret it, but he could still remember the wild times when nothing seemed impossible and life was there to be lived.
I wasn't a bad guy.
There was a whine to the voice that matched the newsreader's nasal tones. Together they rose to an annoying crescendo. "Please, spare me," Roy muttered. More loudly he said, "Why don't you give Christy a break? Let her find her own way. Maybe she'll stick with Quinn, maybe not. It's up to her to decide, though, not you."
I'm not—
"In other news," the newsreader said, "the body of Brianne Lymbourn has been discovered near Kamloops. Lymbourn was the girlfriend of Frank Jamieson junior, son of ice cream entrepreneur Frank Jamieson. Jamieson and Lymbourn disappeared five months ago after Jamieson stole millions from his family trust. They were seen together in Mexico as recently as several days ago. Police are investigating."
"Well, hell," Roy said. "Quinn's been scooped by cable TV."
* * *
Christy knew that Quinn wanted her to stay out of the investigation. His reasons were logical, reasonable, maybe even correct. Her questions were drawing them closer to discovering who had killed Frank. That made her a problem. The more questions she asked, the more dangerous she became. Quinn wanted her to lie low. Let him do the legwork and take any flak that came their way.
She hadn't decided if she was going to go stay out of the active investigation yet, but she figured that checking facts was something she could do without arousing the suspicions of the killer, or worrying Quinn.
She began by doing a web search on local landfills. She discovered that most of the sites in the Lower Mainland area had been closed years ago. One had even become a housing development. But Fisher Disposal had one active site that was accepting deposits, and a second that had closed two years ago, both within easy driving distance of Vancouver.
As she saved the pages, she considered the possibility that Frank might be buried in one of the two Fisher sites. There was only one way to be sure. She'd have to visit each of them. The first would be the operational one, which happened to be the closest to Vancouver. She'd go there on her own, since Frank had avoided her ever since the kiss in Kamloops. She hoped he'd be over his snit by the time she went out to the second site.
* * *
The landfill was located in the Fraser Valley, a two-hour drive along the Trans Canada Highway and down a regional route that connected to a local road. The site was not what Christy expected. The access road was paved, the area around the fence was clean, and there was no obnoxious smell to contend with.
A chain link fence fifteen feet high surrounded the still operational site. At the wide, imposing gate was a booth where a man processed incoming traffic. All vehicles halted there, from massive trucks hauling loads of construction materials to insignificant little cars like Christy's.
"Hi," she said, after she'd rolled down her window.
The guard, burly and middle aged, said, "What have you got?" He was staring at her suspiciously, as if he didn't quite believe that she had anything to contribute to the dump.
Christy smiled. Smiles usually helped make people less grumpy, but this man's expression didn't change. "I don't have anything." That did get a reaction. His frown was something fearful to see. She hurried on. "At least, not yet. I'm planning a home reno project, though, and I want to know how to deal with the stuff I'm going to throw away. My local garbage pickup won't accept it. Is there someone I can talk to about bringing my old walls and, you know, that kind of stuff, here? Price and hours and how much makes up one load and all that?"
The guard studied her. His jaw worked. Christy couldn't be sure if he was chewing gum or tobacco. She wondered if he would spit out whatever was in his mouth if he found her wanting.
Finally he jerked his thumb in the direction of some trees. "Go park over there. The office is in the building beside the lot."
Christy parked where he'd told her, then she stood beside the car and assessed the set up. The site had a number of components. Foremost was the huge pit where most of the waste was accepted. However, there was also a center for material such as glass or plastic containers, newspapers, cardboard, and metal cans, which had to be recycled by law. Another area accepted hazardous wastes such as paints, household chemicals and engine oil. As well as the collection areas, there were a series of ponds and another hole that didn't appear to be used for garbage.
While she looked around the site, a massive truck, as big as a medium-sized dinosaur, stopped at the gate. Negotiations occurred between the driver of the leviatha
n and the grumpy guard, then the truck headed along the dirt road that led to the pit. Men sprang into action, directing the driver of the truck, helping him pull the bolts that secured the doors at the back, then they scuttled away. With slow precision, the container was lifted and the load slipped out. More action locking up, and the truck departed.
Christy thought about what she'd seen as she headed to the office. Nothing in the process was haphazard. The pit appeared to have been broken up into a grid, with the sections being used one at a time. The truck driver was directed to a specific part of the pit and he'd dumped the contents of his truck into a precise area.
She was also struck by the number of people working here. There was the guy at the gate, the men operating the dump area, the office staff. Now, most of them would be gone by the evening, but even so, the more people who were around the more likely it was that a body left here would be discovered.
The office was a large, prefab building that looked surprisingly clean and tidy for a dump site. The walls were fiberglass clapboard, painted a creamy yellow, the front door a warm chocolate brown. There were even curtains in the windows. Christy contemplated the door a moment, trying to make it fit into her preconceptions of what a dump site was all about, then gave up. She pushed it open and went inside.
A chest-high counter made of dark brown wood laminate graced the lobby. Behind it sat a woman working at a computer terminal. As Christy entered, the telephone rang. The receptionist smiled and waved Christy closer as she answered with practiced ease. While she talked, Christy looked around.
Opening off the lobby was a large room and a corridor. Four doors, possibly offices, opened off the narrow hallway, while the single large room appeared to be a staff room with a coffee maker set up on one counter. The beaker was half full, suggesting that the office staff wandered in and out when the urge took them.
The woman hung up the phone and smiled at Christy in a friendly way. "Sorry about that. What can I do for you?"
Christy explained about the mythical home reno once again, and the woman laughed. "So your hubby's leaving you to arrange the details while he has fun doing all the sawing and hammering. Typical. Do yourself a favor, honey, and call in a contractor. You won't be sorry."
Getting into the spirit of the charade, Christy sighed. "Not a chance. He's determined. For a long time he was satisfied with painting or hanging new doors—easy stuff. But he's been watching the decorating and home reno shows on TV. He feels empowered. He says he can do this."
The receptionist snorted. "If I were you, I'd have a contractor lined up for when the disasters start to happen and he loses interest. In the meantime, here are our rates." She set a folded brochure on the counter, then opened it. Pointing to the relevant areas, she said, "Hours of operation, rules and obligations—for both of us! Our landfill doesn't accept dangerous chemicals, banned substances, or other contaminates, although we have a recycling center for those kinds of wastes as a courtesy to our clients. Construction material only. This is a clean site. You want any more information, just give us a call or check out our website."
"What happens if my hubby gets here late? He has absolutely no sense of time. He's always trying to cram too much into the day."
The woman shook her head. "Aren't they the worst? Some guys just don't know when to quit. Well, you tell your man that our hours are firm. At closing time we lock those gates and don't let anyone in, no matter what. And just because you never know what people will do, we've got a posse of security guards watching the site." She jerked her head, indicating the corridor behind her desk. "There's a command center back there full of electronic gadgets that I couldn't tell you what they do, but there's always someone in there watching them, and others out prowling around the site. So your man better not even think about an illegal dump, because he'd be caught sure enough."
"Oh no! I didn't mean anything of the sort."
"Course you didn't, honey. I just wanted you to know that we are a safe, well-run operation here." She nodded, smiling as Christy thanked her and pocketed the brochure.
Outside, Christy walked to the edge of the parking lot. There she watched several more trucks follow the same process as the first one she'd seen. As the receptionist had said, the materials all appeared to be clean fill.
She wondered what Frank would have said if he'd come with her today.
Chapter 22
"Tell me what you remember just before you died."
I was blindfolded and someone hit me over the head. My hands were tied—like Brianne's. I couldn't see anything and my head hurt. I was not taking notes!
Christy resisted the urge to sigh. Frank was still not being any more cooperative and she wondered if it was because he was feeling edgy about going to the second Fisher Disposal landfill. "When did you regain consciousness?"
I was in the trunk of a car! How am I supposed to know?
"Frank, help me out here." She saw her turn and flicked on the indicator. This landfill was an older site, bought by Fisher Disposal in its early days of operation, not created from scratch as the one she'd visited earlier had been. The operation was closed now; in fact, it hadn't been accepting waste for nearly twenty years. Though located in the Fraser Valley as the newer Fisher site was, this landfill was much further from the Greater Vancouver area. The drive was three hours there and three back, a timing nightmare for Christy. She'd arranged to have Mary Petrofsky's mother pick Noelle up, just in case she didn't quite make it back during school hours.
"Brianne's body was found in a landfill site owned by Gerry Fisher. Maybe that's where they disposed of your body, too. In one of Gerry's landfill sites."
I don't like the way you said that.
"What?" Christy saw the marker for the local road she needed and turned off.
Disposed of your body, like you didn't care, or something. It sounds so cold.
From the highway, the site was another ten kilometers to a rather isolated location. The road curled past some houses and a farm or two. All were set well back from the pavement and shaded by large, old trees. "Is that it? What's got you so irritable? You're upset because you can't deal with your own death?"
Hey! There's no need to get personal.
Christy sighed. She'd been insensitive. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be Frank, a sexy, physical man, confident in his own body, now reduced to sharing his existence with a cat, but couldn't quite manage it. "You disappeared four months ago, Frank. By your own account, Aaron lured you into a situation where someone could hit you over the head, dump you in a car, and take you someplace to kill you. Since then you've been living in a cat, trying to figure out a way to make whoever murdered you pay so you can rest easy and go on to whatever."
Not quite.
"Not quite? What do you mean, not quite?"
I don't want to make anyone pay. And I'm not looking for peace. I wanted... Well, I wanted you to understand. I wanted Noelle to know that I didn't desert her. At least, not on purpose.
The smooth pavement had given way to rough, broken roadway. Christy slowed down in an effort to avoid, or at least minimize, the effects of the many potholes. The cat crouched on the passenger seat, claws dug into the upholstery, looking miserable.
She had a feeling that if a cat could cry, Stormy would be doing it right now. Or at least allowing an emotional sniff or two. She should be sympathetic. She should be supportive. Frank clearly hadn't adjusted to being dead. She snorted to herself. As if being dead was something you adjusted to. Give it a break, Christy! The man you lived with, loved with, was dead. He isn't the one who needs to adjust; it's you!
The car hit a particularly wide pothole, lurched, then bounced over another, smaller one. She swore to herself. "Frank, Noelle loves you. She will always love you. I'll make sure of that. When you disappeared, you and I weren't as close as we once were, but we were friends. I'm not angry with you, and I wouldn't ever say anything but the best about you to Noelle. I hope you know that."
I t
rust you, babe. I'm not so sure about your boyfriend.
"Boyfriend? What are you talking about?" The pavement was disintegrating badly on this part of the road. Not only were there big potholes, but there were lots of cracks and bumps. Some of the worst holes had been filled in with gravel, leaving a rough, uneven surface. Christy slowed again to avoid breaking an axel.
What will Armstrong say about me? He doesn't like me much.
"He doesn't know you. Frank, what's this got to do with Noelle?" She rounded a curve, then hit a series of holes that had the car bouncing along. The cat sat up. When they reached a smoother patch of road he stood up and put his paws on the dashboard. Ears pricked, he stared out the windshield. His tail danced from side to side in a silent expression of distress. "What are you doing, Frank?"
This is it, where I woke up. I remember those bumps. My head hurt so bad. I couldn't see. My hands were tied. I kept moving my head around, trying to find a comfortable position, but there wasn't much I could do to stop the hurting. I remember wishing I could die, just to stop the pain. A rueful note crept into the voice. I guess it's true that you should be careful what you wish for.
Christy had a vivid image of Frank's face, eyes dark with a kind of mournful humor, a half smile quirking his mouth. In that moment she thought her heart would break. This was it. This was real. Frank Jamieson was the man she'd loved and married, the man she'd made her beautiful daughter with. Even though she had a voice in her head, talking to her, and claiming to be Frank, somewhere deep in her heart she hadn't accepted that he could possibly be dead. In that instant, as the voice described what no one but Frank could know, she had to accept that it was true. The human form she'd loved and lain with was gone. The young man she saw in her mind's eye was as dead as last year's petunias. The essence of him might be sitting beside her in the family cat, but the physical reality of Frank was no more.
