He looked at the clock on the wall behind the diving board, then at me, then over at the door to the men’s change room, and then back at me. I had the feeling that if it were up to him, I’d be fired. Immediately. For stupidity.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
The university student said something to Mr. Henderson, but I couldn’t hear what it was. Mr. Henderson held up his hand in a “just a minute” gesture.
“My overalls are hanging on a hook in there,” he said to me, nodding in the direction of the change room. “My keys are in the pocket. Unlock the door, wedge it open again—securely this time—and then put the keys back. You think you can do that?”
I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said for the third time. Three’s the charm, right?
He looked at me for another moment before turning back to the kid who was floating in the water.
I went into the change room, found Mr. Henderson’s overalls, pulled out the key chain and unhooked it from the belt loop it was fastened to. wThere were a couple of dozen keys on the ring, all color-coded. I knew from watching Mr. Henderson that the yellow dots were for utility closets, the red dots for activity rooms, the green for offices, and the blue for the pool area. That left a grand total of three other keys that didn’t have colored dots on them. How hard could it be to find the one I was looking for?
I took the keys down to the basement, where Sal was waiting for me.
One look at Sal told me that he would never make a good thief. He didn’t have the right instincts. For example, when he showed up at the community center to help me, he was wearing his uniform from McDonald’s, including his name badge that said, Hi, I’m Sal. I stared at it.
“Don’t you want to at least put that in your pocket?” I said. “You know, be anonymous if you can’t be inconspicuous?”
He glanced down at the badge but didn’t unpin it. “The way I figure it,” he said, “the uniform clears me. I mean, who’d believe a guy would show up to basically do something illegal while he’s wearing a uniform and a name badge?”
Maybe I was wrong about Sal. There was a certain crazy, devious logic to what he said. I positioned him by the stairs. Actually, there were two sets of stairs that led into the basement—one at either side of the building. But from where Sal was standing, at the bottom of one set, you could see the door at the bottom of the other set.
“Take out your math book,” I said. Sal always took his backpack to work with him because he always had a couple of breaks during the evening when he could get some homework done.
“Why math?” he said.
“It’s the heaviest book we have.” It was big and thick and weighed as much as a paving stone. “You hang out here, pretend you’re studying, and if you see anyone—anyone at all—drop the book. Drop it flat and it’ll make a big bang. I’ll hear it.”
“Then what?”
“Then I duck into the boiler room until whoever it is leaves.” Assuming I could make it into the boiler room in time. “Then I go up to the change room and replace the keys.” Assuming I had the chance, assuming the person who prompted Sal to drop his math book wasn’t Mr. Henderson, out of the pool for some reason and looking for me—and his keys.
Now for step two: the break-in.
I tried the first non-color-coded key. It didn’t turn. Neither did the second one. Key number three did the trick, though. I looked all around, even though Sal was standing near the stairs, and pressed my ear to the door before I turned the knob.
The maintenance room was small and square, and it contained a four-unit bank of lockers, an apartmentsize fridge, and a sink with a narrow counter on either side of it on which sat a coffee maker, a small microwave oven, and a radio. Four lockers, but Mr. Henderson was the only maintenance person on staff and, as far as I had been able to figure out, the only person who had a key to the cubbyhole of a room—which was probably why none of the lockers had locks on them.
I closed the door behind me and crossed to the lockers. Mr. Henderson used the one on the far right, closest to the sink. I had seen him hang his jacket in it. I opened it.
And was disappointed.
On the top shelf: the toque he wore when he worked outside shoveling snow or grooming the rink. Hanging on one hook: a ratty old sweater he sometimes wore. I checked the pockets—nothing. On the other hook: his parka. I dug into the pockets. Nothing—well, nothing except some crumpled up (and, I hoped, unused) tissues. On the floor of the locker: the work boots he wore when he was outside.
I checked the other three lockers. They were all empty. I checked the fridge. Apart from an apple and a container of yogurt, it was empty. I checked the drawer next to the sink—it contained a can opener, some cutlery, a handful of paper napkins, and some little packages of ketchup, mustard, salt and pepper. I checked the cupboard under the sink. Nothing there except a sponge, a bottle of cleaner, and a garbage can. I started to close the cupboard door—then stopped, reached in, and pulled out the garbage can. I held my breath when I opened the lid. But the only thing inside was a crumpled up plastic bag from a drugstore. I pulled it out and was looking inside when …
Blam!
Jeez.
I shoved the drugstore bag into my pocket, jammed the garbage can back under the sink, and ducked out of the room, pulling the door shut behind me and then fumbling with the keys, trying to get the right one, trying to lock the door again because, unlike the utility closet doors, this one didn’t lock automatically. My heart pounded. My hands shook so badly that I dropped the keys. Sal wouldn’t make a good thief? I wouldn’t make a good thief. If Riel had been here, and if he had looked at it the right way, he would have been relieved.
“Psst!”
I froze for a second. Then, like it was someone else who was making it happen, my head turned and I saw Sal standing out in the hall, away from the stairs, looking mostly embarrassed.
“I dropped it by accident,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Sorry.”
Jeez.
I hurried down the hall toward him. “It’s okay,” I said. The truth was, I was relieved it was over. Well, mostly over.
“Did you find anything?” he said.
I shook my head. I had found exactly nothing that would tell me—or Emily—anything more about Mr. Henderson than I already knew, which was just about nothing. Sal looked disappointed.
“I better get these keys back,” I said.
Sal said he’d better get to work. And that was that. I went back upstairs, slipped the keys back into Mr. Henderson’s pocket, and climbed the stairs to the third floor to finish my mopping. By the time I was ready to move down to the second floor, Mr. Henderson was there with his keys to open the second-floor utility room door for me. His hair was still wet from the pool.
When I went downstairs at the end of my shift, Riel was standing inside the main doors. My first thought: Something bad has happened. Maybe Emily had called the house again. Maybe this time she said something to Riel. But when he came toward me, he didn’t look worried or mad or disappointed—nothing like that.
Still, to be on the safe side, I said, “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah, something’s wrong,” he said, which gave me a sinking feeling. What now? I wondered. “I was just talking to Teresa.” She was a friend of Riel’s. For a quiet, serious guy, he knew a lot of people. He put one hand on my shoulder and shook his head. I swallowed hard, thinking she must have said something bad about me. But what? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, unless you counted the keys I had just stolen, the snooping I had just done, and that thing with Emily’s wallet. I was glad I had talked to Teresa about Mr. Henderson. Riel had probably mentioned that to her. Uh-oh. Maybe Emily had double-crossed me. Maybe she’d spoken to Teresa.
“Boy, does she ever put in long hours,” Riel said. “Anyway, she said you’re doing great—always on time, always polite, no complaints from the guy you’re working with.”
“Yeah, well …” I shrugged.
“That’s no
t why I’m here, though.”
Right. He was here because something was wrong. I waited.
“The way I figure it,” Riel said, “between school and work, you haven’t had a decent meal all week. So I thought maybe you’d like to go out and grab a bite. You name the place.”
“Really?” It sounded too good to be true. There had to be a catch.
But there wasn’t. He told me again to pick a place, any place. I knew exactly where I wanted to go—a place I’d eaten at for the first time with Riel. A little plain-looking restaurant down on Queen Street where they made ribs that reminded me of my mother’s cooking. Riel smiled when I told him. It was his favorite place too.
“Come on,” he said, turning, which is why he didn’t see Mr. Henderson. He didn’t, but I did. Mr. Henderson was standing on the landing halfway down the stairs from the second floor. He was looking at Riel. Looking at him the same way he had looked at Emily Corwin. What was that all about?
It wasn’t until I was getting undressed later that I remembered the plastic bag from the drugstore. I pulled it out of my pocket. There was nothing inside except a sales slip. I started to crumple it up, then decided to look at it first. It was a sales slip from a drugstore for two items: contact lens solution and hair dye.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emily wasn’t going to be happy, but I had tried. I had done what she wanted me to do. The next day after school, I called her on the number she had given me and left a message. Then I did my homework and had supper with Riel. I was cleaning up when the doorbell rang.
A cop was standing on the front porch. A cop I knew, and not just because he was an old friend of Riel’s. His name was Detective Jones, and he grinned at me when I opened the door.
“Hey, Mike, relax,” he said. “I’m here for John this time, not you. He here?”
“He went to the store,” I said.
“You expect him back soon?”
“In a couple of minutes, I guess.” Riel had this idea that a growing boy—me—needed plenty of milk. He poured me a big glass every morning, whether I wanted it or not, then made me drink it by telling me no way was he going to waste it by pouring it down the sink. We were out. He’d gone to get more.
“Mind if I come in and wait for him?” Detective Jones said. “It’s cold out here.”
I stepped aside to let him in.
“You better take your boots off,” I said.
Detective Jones grinned again. “John,” he said. “We used to tease him all the time that he probably had his sock drawer organized by color.” He thought that was pretty funny. I thought it was probably pretty accurate.
“I have to finish the dishes,” I said.
Detective Jones pulled off his boots. He left them on the mat in the front hall and followed me through the living room and dining room, pausing to look around.
“Nice,” he said, nodding at the dining room table. “New?”
“A couple of weeks,” I said. Susan had helped Riel pick it out. He didn’t have much furniture, considering how long he had been living in the house, but what he had was good stuff. You pick it right, he said, it’ll last a lifetime.
When he got to the kitchen, Detective Jones looked at the pile of dishes soaking in the sink.
“You guys need a dishwasher,” he said.
I agreed. But Riel didn’t trust dishwashers. He didn’t think they cleaned things well enough. But I didn’t say that. I just shrugged and plunged my hands into the hot soapy water.
“Aw, what the heck,” Detective Jones said. “I’ll dry.” He grabbed a towel from the rack at the end of the counter. “So, how’s John treating you?”
“Okay, I guess,” I said. “Glasses go in that cupboard.”
He found the cupboard okay, but put the glass he’d just dried on the wrong side of the shelf. Jeez, the guy was a detective. Didn’t he notice that the tall glasses, what Riel called the water glasses, were all on the right, and the small glasses, the juice glasses, were on the left? I was going to have to redo everything he was doing. Either that or I’d have to watch Riel do it the next time he opened the cupboard. And he’d be grousing at me the whole time.
Detective Jones had put a couple more glasses into the cupboard more or less at random and had moved over to messing up the side plates and the saucers when I heard the front door open.
“Mike?” Riel’s voice. “Is someone here?”
Detective Jones threw the dish towel onto the counter. Riel appeared in the doorway, his parka still on, a jug of milk—organic—in one hand.
“Hey, Jonesy,” he said, surprised. He glanced at me, like maybe I was the reason his friend had showed up unexpectedly.
“I need to talk to you, John,” Detective Jones said. “You got a minute?”
“Sure,” Riel said. He put the milk into the fridge and then frowned when he spotted the dish towel Detective Jones had dropped onto the counter. He picked it up, folded it, and hung it on the towel rack. “What’s up?”
“You heard about that body they found up in Caledon?” Detective Jones said.
“In the woods? Yeah, I saw it in the paper. They get an ID on it yet?”
Detective Jones shook his head. “We’re still working on it.”
“We?” Riel said. “Doesn’t Peel have it?” He meant the Peel Regional Police. Detective Jones was with the Toronto Police Service. “Or is it Ontario Provincial Police?”
“Technically, the body was in the village of Snel-grove, so, technically, it’s Peel,” Detective Jones said. “So we’re cooperating.”
“You mean, you want in and they’re trying to decide whether they’ll let you,” Riel said. Detective Jones shrugged. “How come? What’s it to you?”
“The guy was shot,” Detective Jones said.
“I heard.”
“We don’t know who he is yet, but one thing we do know. The bullet that killed him? It came out of the same gun that killed Tracie Howard.”
The color drained from Riel’s face, boom, like his head was a paint can and someone had just shot a hole in the bottom of it. Detective Jones reached for him.
“You okay, John?”
Riel didn’t say anything.
Detective Jones grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and swung it over so that it was right behind Riel.
“You better sit down,” he said. He looked at me. “You got homework, Mike?”
“I haven’t finished the dishes yet,” I said.
“They can wait,” Detective Jones said. “Maybe you can find something else to do right now.”
I hesitated. I wanted to know what was going on. Then Riel found his voice.
“Now, Mike,” he said.
I left the rest of the dishes in the sink and cleared out of the kitchen. Detective Jones closed the door behind me. I knew he would be listening for me to go upstairs. They both would. I had no choice. I climbed the stairs to wait until Detective Jones left or it was time to go to the community center—whichever came first.
Detective Jones didn’t stay long—maybe ten minutes more. When I heard the kitchen door open again, I crept away from the top of the stairs into the darkness of the upstairs hall.
“I just thought you’d want to know,” Detective Jones said. “We’re going to try to keep it under wraps for a few days at least, see if we can find Howard before the media gets hold of it. But they are going to get hold of it, John, probably sooner rather than later. You know how they are. I wanted you to hear about it before you see it on the eleven o’clock news.”
“I appreciate that,” Riel said. There was a long pause before he said, “You have any idea where Howard is?”
“I heard he went out west after he was acquitted. We’re in touch with police services out there. We’re looking for him.”
I waited a few more minutes after Detective Jones left. Then I went downstairs. Riel was in the kitchen. He’d finished the dishes and was straightening out the cupboards that Detective Jones had messed up. I got the milk out of the f
ridge, an excuse to ask him to please pass me a glass, which he did silently. Then I asked, “Who’s Tracie Howard?”
Riel folded the dish towel that he had slung over his shoulder while he straightened the cupboard. He hung it on the towel rack. “She’s a woman who was murdered,” he said.
I waited, but he didn’t tell me anything else. “Did you know her?” I said.
“I worked on the case.”
“When you were in homicide.”
“Yeah,” he said. “When I was in homicide.”
“Did you get whoever did it?”
Riel isn’t exactly a laugh-a-minute guy at the best of times. He’s the serious type. He’s also the type of guy who doesn’t waste words. But he was more serious than usual tonight, and he was paying out his words the way a miser pays out pennies, one at a time, letting each one go reluctantly.
“They eventually arrested a guy,” he said.
They? “I thought you said you worked on the case.”
He looked over at the window for a moment. Then he said, “It’s a long story, Mike. The short version is, a guy was eventually arrested. Something like eighteen months after that, he went to trial. By the time it was over, he’d been acquitted.” He glanced up at the clock above the kitchen table. “I have essays to mark,” he said. “Don’t you have to get to work?”
Riel was sitting at the dining room table when I got home, but he wasn’t marking essays. From the number of empty beer bottles sitting on the table—five empties in front of a guy who normally drank only one beer—I’d have bet he hadn’t read even a single essay.
“Everything okay?” I said.
“Go to bed, Mike.”
His face looked strained. His eyes were watery. He reminded me of Billy when he’d had too much to drink.
“You know, because if there’s anything—”
Anger flashed in his eyes. It scared me. I’d seen him annoyed before. Disappointed. Frustrated. Even impatient, although that was rare. But angry? Never.
“I mean it, Mike. Go to bed.”
I backed off and went up to my room. I sat down on my bed and wondered if I should call Susan. Something was definitely wrong. If Riel didn’t want to talk to me, fine. He didn’t know me all that well. Besides, I was just a kid—at least, that’s probably how he looked at it. But Susan was his friend. Maybe more than that. Maybe she could help talk to him about whatever was bothering him.
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