Little Boy Blues

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I decided to follow something Deveau had said. “Pretty unsettling. Not like he’d ever been in trouble before.”

  A look flickered across Deveau’s face. He stared out at the wall behind my head. His neck was flushed enough to make me wonder why. I figured it was a good thing he didn’t have to make his living as a liar. I pushed on with my gut feeling.

  “Has he ever been in trouble?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “What do you mean? Innocent question from a concerned member of the public.”

  “Come on, eh. You’re a lawyer.”

  “So what?”

  “You know I can’t talk about anything connected with a young offender.” Even the tips of Deveau’s ears were red. Was he the nicest guy in the world or a crazy-making machine?

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Think about the terms of the Young Offenders Act. Excuse me.” Deveau pushed back his chair.

  I said, “Okay, on another topic, did you interview the guests in the hotels overlooking the boardwalk to see if anyone saw anything?”

  But I was talking to myself. Deveau must have been able to walk through walls.

  As I left the station, an officer standing by the front door looked me up and down. “You sure got Ray Deveau rattled. That’s a first.”

  I could think of only one reason why Ray Deveau would get himself in such a twist. Jimmy Ferguson had some kind of brush with the law when he was underage. According to the Young Offenders Act, those records would be confidential. Sure, the information wasn’t available to the public, but I wasn’t foolish enough to think that the cops in a small town would erase their memories. That gave them the advantage. I had to ask myself what kind of trouble that perfect angel Jimmy Ferguson had been in. And whether it was connected with his disappearance, and how seriously the police regarded it.

  • • •

  I stopped into the James McConnell Memorial Library and asked about the local paper. Seconds later I was tucked up at a light oak reference table near the large window looking over Falmouth Street with the Cape Breton Post for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday set out in front of me.

  The police must have been on the ball, because the paper had an item about Jimmy the morning after he went missing. I was impressed, because there’d also been a hit and run the same evening. An unidentified man had been struck in front of a crowd of stunned onlookers lined up at Fuzzy’s Fries. Serious stuff, that. The police would have had to reroute traffic, send over a SOCO team, interview witnesses. Small city like this, they probably would have had to call in some off-duty officers. I had to ask myself, if you put that on top of the extra holiday workload, how much real attention would they have given to Jimmy Ferguson, who was probably going to show up anyway, looking a bit sheepish for staying at a friend’s without calling home? You could understand if they’d been a tad perfunctory in their interviews.

  Sure, alleged nice guy Ray Deveau talked a good story, but cops have to set priorities. The notice about Jimmy reappeared in Tuesday’s paper. This time in the form of a human interest story with a photo of Jimmy, looking more like a model than a lost boy, and a shot of Gussie looking devastated. No one who read the newspaper could have missed the coverage.

  Of course, the hit and run made the front page too. Police had not released the name of the victim, still listed in serious condition in the intensive care unit. The scene of the incident, sectioned off with POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape, made an effective shot. Ray Deveau interviewed well. The investigation was progressing. Public would be kept informed. Blah blah.

  Witnesses gave quotes. One man who refused to be identified said: “The driver aimed straight for him. Didn’t slow down a bit.”

  Another witness offered: “Shocking, never seen nothing like it. Never touched those brakes.”

  Someone added: “French fries everywhere.”

  A woman said: “You could hear the screaming for two blocks.”

  I felt my throat closing. Paul’s crumpled Tercel flashed in front of me, as fresh as yesterday. Paul pinned by the steering wheel as the jaws of life went to work.

  This was Wednesday. The morning paper had more on Jimmy. Divers would continue to search the harbour. Police and volunteer search teams were spreading outside the city limits as far as Mira and Coxheath. Police were conducting house to house interviews. Ray Deveau hadn’t mentioned that. Vince Ferguson appealed to anyone who knew anything at all about Jimmy to come forward.

  No one mentioned the possibility of abduction. Or pedophiles. Or anything else inflammatory.

  The hit and run victim had died overnight. Police had not released his name pending notification of family members.

  My knees buckled as I got up from the table. I knew what it was like to be the next of kin. If the victim had a wife, five years later, anything reminiscent of that accident would still shake her.

  “Are you all right?” the reference librarian asked.

  “No,” I said and got the hell out.

  I must have walked for hours, avoiding the spot where the hit and run took place, even though that would be the logical place to go, since it was so close to where Jimmy was last seen.

  I worked to get myself under control. Paul was dead. There was nothing I could do about that. But I could help find Jimmy if I could manage my emotions.

  Luckily, I had posters and a staple gun, and the town had plenty of telephone poles.

  • • •

  Gussie’s tail thumped the hardwood floor when I walked through the door. Someone was glad to see me.

  It was after one, and the Fergusons were well into lunch mode by the time I got back. You could practically count their ribs, and yet every two minutes they were stuffing food into their mouths. I enjoyed being bothered by this. It took my mind off other things. Mrs. Parnell headed next door. Apparently, she had been busy too.

  “Things to talk about, Ms. MacPhee,” she said. “When you get a chance. You look a bit pale. Are you quite all right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Loretta and Donald Donnie are quite the goldmine of information. Lucky for us that I am enjoying their hospitality.”

  “Great. I wish I could move over too.”

  “Ms. MacPhee. You are needed here with young Ferguson.” I opened my mouth to mention that Alvin had also spent the night at Donald Donnie and Loretta’s, and no one had their panties in a twist over that.

  “Take the opportunity to eat while you have the chance,” she said. “We don’t know where this thing will take us.”

  Lunch was a very fine fish chowder and more homemade bread. I didn’t say no. Despite the conversation around the table, you could feel the tension in the air. Tracy soon disappeared out the door with another box of posters. Vince drove off to join a team tasked with a second sweep of the Mira area. Mrs. Ferguson was packed off upstairs with a nerve pill.

  It was Alvin’s turn to dry the dishes and my turn to wash, apparently. I am never permitted to help with the dishes at my sisters’ homes. And I never have any dishes to speak of in mine. I don’t wash takeout containers. Even as a child people would get me out of the kitchen as soon as they could.

  “Fine. All part of the service.”

  I squirted detergent onto a sponge, picked up the first chowder bowl and ran it under the hot water. “I wanted to ask you something.”

  “What are you doing?” Alvin said.

  “What do you mean what am I doing? What do you think? I’m washing the dishes.”

  “Like that?” I wasn’t sure what he had to be snarky about, since I was pitching in without a complaint. I was on the third bowl now.

  “Don’t worry about those bubbles,” I said. “They’ll wipe right off when you dry.”

  Alvin snatched the bowl from my hand.

  “Relax.” I picked up another bowl and gave it a quick rinse.

  “Step away from the sink.”

  Normally, I don’t take orders from Alvin, but since I d
idn’t want him back into his shell, I decided to cooperate.

  He filled the sink with water hot enough to boil an egg and squirted in an excessive dose of lemon-scented detergent. While the sink was filling, he separated the dishes: the glasses first, then the silverware, then the bowls and last, the chowder pot. All lined up nicely on the counter top. He filled the second sink with clear hot water. I could tell he’d done this before.

  That was fine with me. I sat on a chair and watched him. When things looked ready to go, he snapped on a pair of yellow rubber gloves. He handed me a dish towel. It looked like it had been ironed.

  “You can dry,” he said.

  I bit my tongue when he had me redo a couple of glasses. I wanted a relaxed atmosphere to explore what Ray Deveau wouldn’t tell me about Jimmy Ferguson.

  “So,” I said, when everything breakable had been consigned to the cupboard, “Jimmy seems to be a real angel.”

  “Everyone loves him.”

  “That’s nice. You’re very close.”

  I could see Alvin’s Adam’s apple moving. “Yes.”

  “You’ve stayed in touch.”

  Alvin sniffed.

  “Sorry, Alvin. I’m trying to learn about him. Is it too upsetting for you to talk?”

  “It’s okay, and yeah, I stayed in touch with him.”

  “And he stayed in touch with you.” I tensed a bit, because I didn’t want to precipitate another crisis by mentioning Jimmy’s postcards.

  He nodded, sniffed. I had to reach out and pat his shoulder. Where was Mrs. Parnell when I needed her? At least he hadn’t curled into a ball.

  “You’re a year apart, aren’t you?”

  “Two.”

  “I imagine you got into a few pranks as a kid. I suppose Jimmy was always the good one.”

  Alvin sat down. He rocked back and forth a bit in the chair. For one heartstopping moment, I thought I’d lost him again. “He was always good.”

  “Come on, Alvin. Everyone gets into a little bit of trouble. Even angels have a little bit of the devil in them.”

  He rocked a bit harder.

  “Not even smoking behind the barn?”

  “We don’t have a barn. This is a city, Camilla, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  Good. Angry was much better than whimpering.

  “Not skipping classes?”

  “Jimmy loved school. He was in a special class. That’s where he met his friends. He never skipped.”

  “What about snitching a bit of money from your mother to sneak out to a movie?”

  “Jimmy had enough money to go to the movies. He always had little jobs, cutting grass, that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe he got caught watching dirty movies?”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  How did Alvin say that without moving his mouth? Ventriloquism was a new skill and one I wouldn’t have minded having myself. But, of course, it wasn’t Alvin.

  I whirled around to face Vince. Tracy stood behind him, her hand up to her mouth.

  “I thought you were gone to Mira.” Considering the importance of their search, they didn’t seem to be able to stay out for long.

  “And I said what is the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

  “Just reminiscing with Alvin about his boyhood.”

  Alvin, damn him, chose that moment to let two perfectly shaped tears run down his pasty face.

  “I knew it was a mistake to have her here,” Vince said.

  “It’s okay, Vince. She’s trying to wear me down. I’m used to it.”

  I whirled again. “What?”

  Alvin said, “It’s not like you are too frigging subtle, Camilla.”

  “So what? I hear that Jimmy likes to hide. Is that true?”

  “Gosh,” Tracy said, “it sure is.”

  “Why does he hide?” I asked.

  “Lots of reasons, right, Allie?” Tracy said.

  “Yeah, he’s always done it. He’ll hide if he doesn’t want to go to the doctor or learn his catechism or whatever. And if he’s afraid,” Alvin said.

  “What’s he afraid of?”

  “All sorts of things. Sometimes it’s a dog. Certain places. Sometimes people spook him,” Alvin said.

  “Any people in particular?”

  Tracy and Alvin looked at each other and shook their heads. Alvin said, “It never makes any sense. He’s pretty good at hiding, but you can always find him.”

  “And you believed he was hiding the night he disappeared.”

  “Vince did,” Tracy said. “He kept checking out Jimmy’s favourite places. But now we know Jimmy wasn’t hiding.”

  Vince glowered.

  I said, “No one here mentioned that to me.”

  “Why the hell should they?” Vince said, raising his voice.

  “Gee, maybe because I made a journey of over a thousand miles supposedly to help out. Then I learn his family keeps secrets that might shed light on Jimmy’s disappearance. Then Vince gets in a snit if I ask questions. It all makes so much sense.”

  “Secrets?” Alvin said.

  “Allie should have had the brains not to bring her here. She’s a first-class...”

  “But what do you mean by secrets?” Alvin said. “Shut up, Allie.”

  “I want to know. What kind of secrets is Camilla talking about?” Alvin said.

  “All I have to do is step out of the house, and I discover things no one is talking about here. Issues relevant to this investigation,” I said.

  A lesser woman might have felt threatened by the way Vince leaned forward. “Nobody asked for your help. We all remember the harm done to Allie during your previous so-called investigations. We don’t need you here.”

  “That’s enough, Vince,” Tracy said. “Camilla’s right.”

  “What were you going to say, Vince? A first-class...?” I said.

  Tracy kept on. “We really should tell the truth.”

  “The truth is Jimmy is a sweet, damaged kid who wouldn’t hurt anyone,” Vince said.

  “I don’t believe I mentioned anything about hurting anyone.”

  “Let it go, Camilla,” Alvin sniffed.

  Vince paced. “That’s all in the past. No point in dragging every little thing up. It will only hurt Ma.”

  “What will hurt me?” Mrs. Ferguson said from the door.

  “Talking about Jimmy, Ma.”

  “Don’t be foolish. How could it hurt me to talk about our Jimmy?”

  The kitchen was getting crowded again. “I thought all you people were out combing the hills,” I said.

  “Ma’s right,” Tracy said. “We should tell the truth.”

  “Of course, I raised my children to tell the truth.”

  Tracy said. “There’s no reason to keep Camilla in the dark.”

  Mrs. Ferguson said. “In the dark about what?”

  Tracy and Vince and Alvin exchanged looks. They did furtive well. A cop would arrest them on grounds they had to be guilty of something.

  I stuck in my two cents. “Exactly. What am I in the dark about?”

  Vince stared at the tiles. Alvin squinted at the handles on the cupboard doors. Tracy examined her bitten nails. I said, “Well?”

  Tracy stepped toward her mother. “You know, Ma,” she said.

  “What are you talking about, Tracy? I am mystified.”

  “I’m talking about Honey.”

  Vince slammed his fist into the cupboard door. Mrs. Ferguson slumped into the nearest chair. If I hadn’t jumped forward to catch her, she might have kept sliding onto the floor.

  “We will never talk about that,” she said.

  Eleven

  Well, we were on to something, but I had no idea what. Who was Honey? A person? A place? A snack? The name sure had a powerful effect. The family sat, white-faced, chiselled and intransigent.

  Vince ate a couple of Cape Breton pork pies. Tracy got up and made a sandwich. Mrs. Ferguson nibbled a shortbread. Alvin sipped a cup of black tea out of a china cup.
r />   I went for the weakest link. “Alvin. You look pale.”

  Of course, Alvin would look pale with a sunburn. I know it and he knows it and he knows I know it.

  “Time to get the roses into your cheeks, my lad. Nothing like a brisk walk to get the bloom of health back.”

  His eyes bulged behind the cat’s-eye glasses.

  “Beautiful day,” I said. “Let’s not stay here upsetting each other. I am sorry. We should head off and get some exercise.”

  “Exercise?” he said.

  “Yes! Tracy, do you have any of those posters left? I used all mine up, and we have lots of territory to cover yet.” Silly question, because boxes of posters were stacked by the back door. The challenge would be finding a telephone pole not already smothered with Jimmy’s picture.

  “Chop, chop,” I said.

  Tracy came to my aid. “Plenty more. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No no no no. It’s more efficient if we split up. They need you on one of the search teams. Alvin can help me. He’ll know the best places.”

  Gussie wanted to come too.

  • • •

  “I know exactly what you’re up to,” Alvin said.

  “But it doesn’t matter if you know what I’m up to. I’m up to it, and you’re going to play along.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “Keeping stupid secrets that impede the search for Jimmy?”

  “You don’t know, Camilla.”

  “I do know. I know the police reacted differently from the typical no-show. And I know they are aware of something else with Jimmy. And I want to find out what it is.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Listen, I think it is important. Too bad I managed to burn my bridges with my one police contact here, and that cost us. And that’s because you people didn’t fill me in on the background properly.”

  “You’re always burning your bridges with the police. You can’t blame that on us.” Alvin’s eyes gleamed.

  He looked better already. I could see my mistake. All that kindness and tender loving care had exactly the wrong effect on him. He didn’t need namby-pamby poor lovely boy shit. He thrives on conflict.

  I said, “I can blame it on the whole crowd of you. You are playing me for a fool.”