by Anne Emery
“That man. I don’t know where you get the patience to deal with some of the people you have to represent, Monty.”
“It’s part of my job, but that doesn’t mean it’s not aggravating at times.”
“I’m sure. Well, as I say, he’s a Hebb from Beaver Bank.”
“Thanks, Mike. See you later.”
Monty found Hebb Sunday afternoon, living in a trailer in the Beaver Bank area north of the city. He knocked, and heard a voice telling him to come in. There was no sign of Befanee, or of a woman’s touch in the decor or in the refuse in the tiny kitchen. The place stunk of dog and of grease. Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes were stacked on top of the garbage can. Bargain-of-the-week booze bottles filled one corner, and an ashtray filled with butts teetered on the arm of a La-Z-Boy chair in front of a humongous, new-looking TV set. Monty perched on the edge of a folding metal chair facing a couch where Hebb sat with a massive, brutal-looking dog at his side. The visionary’s chosen one was big and heavy with lank, dark hair. Like the dog.
He looked around, looked at Monty, and said, “I’m busy.”
“I’m sure you are, so let’s make this quick.”
Monty spied some library books on a packing crate beside the couch. The top one was titled Marian Sightings: The Catholic Tourist’s Guide.
“Been doing a bit of devotional reading, Gary?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m a lawyer, and one of my clients from time to time is the Catholic Church in Halifax.” That was not the client Monty was billing for this research trip, but he would get into that later. “What do you expect to gain from your girlfriend’s claimed visions?”
“She really sees things. She’s always been like that.”
“You mean she has seen the Virgin Mary before this?”
“Not Mary, but other stuff. Predictions, psychic dreams. She wants to write a book about her dreams. I’m trying to find her a publisher.”
Monty did not take him up on that, but asked, “What’s in it for you?”
“What do you mean? She’s my girlfriend. I help her out.”
“By taking money off people in the churchyard.”
“I can sue you for saying that.”
“No, you can’t. What do you tell the people, that you’re collecting for charity?”
“The Virgin Mary said in her messages to Bef to support the poor. Just ’cause you’re not poor I guess that’s why you’re crapping on what we’re trying to do.”
“What are you trying to do, Gary?”
“I know a lot of poor people, homeless guys. I try to help them out. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong is if you’re taking people’s money and not giving it to the poor but spending it on yourself.”
“Fuck you.”
“New TV, Gary?”
“Fuck off. I paid for it myself.”
“I’m sure you did. Where did the money come from?”
“I got a job. I don’t just sit around and collect pogey, like . . .”
“Like who, Gary? Poor people?”
“What’s your problem?”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m on layoff right now, but I’ll be called back.”
“Called back where?”
“Earl’s Excavation and Demolition.”
“What do they excavate?”
“Nothing now. That’s why I’m on layoff.”
“What do you know about Jordyn Snider?”
“Why are you asking about her?”
“She got killed. Why wouldn’t there be questions about her? But the point here is that I’m the lawyer for the guy charged with her death.”
“You represent Pike Podgis! That’s pretty cool. Maybe you’ll get on his program. Great show. The old Pikester. He tells it like it is.”
“I doubt I’ll be invited on the show. But about Jordyn . . .”
“I don’t know nothing about it.”
“Where were you the night of September twenty-third and the morning of the twenty-fourth?”
“What the fuck is this? I didn’t have nothing to do with that.”
“I don’t know, Gary. If you were somewhere else, why not just say so? Seems to me Jordyn might have presented a bit of unwelcome competition to Befanee and Gary Enterprises.”
“She moved right in on Bef. But I didn’t have nothing to do with her death. I was here all night.”
“With whom?”
“Befanee.”
“Tell me more about Jordyn. When did she come on the scene?”
“One day she just showed up and started hanging around, all dressed up and with her hair done. Then she came again another day when the TV reporters were coming to do another story about it all. And Jordyn kept pushing herself in front of Bef, talking to the people there. She even brought flowers to give out. And she talked about bringing a bunch of little kids next time because she said the Virgin Mary likes kids, and wanted to see them there. She was a fuckin’ faker.”
“And Befanee’s not.”
Silence.
“Did you know Jordyn before she showed up at the statue?”
“No.”
“Did Befanee know her?”
“She never seen her before in her life. What a bitch.”
“What? Who? Jordyn?”
“Yeah. You’re not supposed to crap on the dead but it’s true. She was a little bitch.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Befanee told her to get out of her way. The TV cameras were coming for her, not for Jordyn. And Jordyn started shitting all over Bef, saying she was too short and her face was too fat, and the cameras would pick up acne scars, and her hair was too thin and stringy, and her makeup looked like a kid had put it on and it made her look like a clown, and she would never make it on TV and would never make it as a model. Everybody would laugh at her. And Bef was all upset and told Jordyn that she was just jealous because of all the attention Bef was getting, and that she was going to be on TV a lot from now on, and Jordyn could just get lost and eat her heart out. But Jordyn didn’t back off. And then the TV truck pulled up, and Jordyn said she would get some people to hurt Befanee, hurt her really bad and mess her up. And Bef was scared shitless because she believed Jordyn would do it. She was dead serious. Jordyn was. Then the TV cameras were on, and Bef was on, and then Jordyn shoved her way on camera. Bef was really scared of her after that. But then she got killed.”
“Problem solved.”
“I didn’t do it. I’ll take a lie detector test!”
“You weren’t the only one whose interests were threatened by Jordyn.”
“What do you mean? Hey! You don’t mean Befanee had something to do with this! That’s fuckin’ sick, man. Befanee couldn’t hurt anybody. She never did nothing violent in her life. And she was with me that night. Ask anybody.”
“But who would know, if it was just the two of you here by yourselves?”
“Maybe somebody seen us, somebody from one of the other trailers.” He brooded on the problem for a while, then said, “Hey, I just remembered. The guy three places down was having a party and it got out of hand, and I went over and told him off, and told him to turn the music down and keep his buddies inside and quiet. It was late that night. You can go ask him!”
“I will. But that doesn’t prove Befanee was here.”
“Well, she was.”
“All right, Gary. Do you think that other guy is at home right now?”
“Yeah, he’s always there. He sleeps all day, parties all night. He’s in there.” Gary pointed three trailers down.
“Here’s what we’re going to do. You come outside and stand where I can see you. So I know you’re not on the phone to your alibi witness, telling him what to say.”
“I wouldn’t do nothin
g like that.”
“And I’ll ask him about that night. Let’s go.”
They went outside, and Gary stood in front of the trailer by the door.
“One more thing, Gary. If you ever turn up at St. Bernadette’s and ask for money again, the priests there will have you arrested. Now stay here where I can see you.”
“All right, all right.”
Monty walked down to the party trailer, which looked the part, with piles of bottles and cases of empties all around the battered exterior. He knocked at the door and waited. Nearly a full minute passed before someone answered. A bleary-eyed man wrapped in a bedsheet stood at the door blinking. “Whaddaya want?”
Monty explained that he was trying to find out what certain individuals were doing the night of September twenty-third and twenty-fourth, when Jordyn Snider was killed. He asked whether anyone had come to his trailer, perhaps to complain about noise. The man stared at him through bloodshot eyes and made an obvious, and strained, effort to think back to that night. Then he had it. “Yeah, I remember that night! Or the next morning, because somebody stole my fuckin’ copy of the Daily News. I heard there was a murder, and wanted to read about it in the paper, and some asshole stole it. But then I got it back from the guy, and the story wasn’t in anyway because it happened too late for the paper to have it. That was when that Jordyn girl was stabbed.”
“Right. Do you remember anything about the night before? Were you here?”
“What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t even know her. Yeah, I was here. I had some people over. And I can prove it. Go ask the asshole who lives in that place.” The man pointed to Gary Hebb’s trailer, where Gary still stood by the entrance. “Yeah, look at him standing there, the nosy bastard. Some people got nothing better to do than whine at their neighbours. He came over in the middle of the night and started ragging on me and my friends about a bit of music we had on. It wasn’t even loud. He was the only one to complain, not even the old geezer who lives next door. Maybe he’s too deaf to hear it, I don’t know.”
“So that man, Gary, came here that same night to complain.”
“Yeah. He’s always doing stuff like that. I think she puts him up to it.”
“Who?”
“The Virgin Befanee. Maybe messages from God’s mother are what keeps her awake, not my parties. She had her face in the window that night, watching every step he made, making sure he came over and butted in.”
“All right. I won’t keep you any longer. Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, any time. Just feel free to wake me up.”
Monty walked back to Gary Hebb. “Looks as if you’re in the clear. The guy gave you your alibi, and he doesn’t like you much. Befanee’s off the hook too.”
And Monty had heard something new about the murder victim. There was a nasty streak running through the personality of Jordyn Snider.
Chapter 13
Monty
Just after lunch on Tuesday, the receptionist at Stratton Sommers put through a call. “Somebody on the line for you, Monty. If she gave a name, I couldn’t make it out.”
“Thanks, Darlene. I’ll take it. Hello?”
“Hello? Mr. Collins?”
It was a timid voice; Monty could barely hear her. There was noise in the background, and he missed whatever else she said.
“Could you say that again?”
“I’m, uh . . .” The woman cleared her throat and spoke with a bit more volume. “I’m here to see Perry.”
“Perry?”
“You know, Pike.”
Could this be April? The alibi woman really existed?
“Okay,” was all Monty said.
“Yeah, I’m, uh, his wife.” His wife? “Well, we’re divorced, but . . .”
That’s right, Monty remembered. Podgis told him he was divorced. “I see. You’re Mr. Podgis’s wife, or ex-wife, and you’re here . . . where are you?”
“I’m at his place. Well, his building. He’s not home, so I can’t get into the apartment. One of his neighbours is letting me use her phone.”
“Did Pike say what time he’d be home?”
“No, not exactly. He doesn’t . . . well, he gave me his address and phone number, but he doesn’t exactly know about me coming.”
Oh.
“I took the train all the way here from Toronto.”
“How long did that take you? Day and a half?”
“Yeah. It was a long ride. I’m pooped.”
“I can imagine.”
“So, he’s not here, and you’re the only other number I have. I mean, the only other person whose name I know, because of all the publicity. Well, I guess I could have called the TV station, but . . . Anyway, if you hear from him, will you tell him I’m here?”
“Problem is, I have no idea when I’ll hear from him, and you’re stuck there with your bags and no place to settle in. Tell you what. You go to the lobby of the building, and I’ll swing by and get you. If Pike comes home in the meantime, great. If not, we’ll figure something out.”
“Oh, no, don’t do that, Mr. Collins. I’ll just wait.”
“See you in twenty minutes. Oh, what’s your name?”
“Phyllis.”
“All right, Phyllis. Call me Monty. See you in a bit.”
But before leaving for Dartmouth, Monty made a call. He saw an advantage in getting to Podgis’s ex-wife before Podgis did. With any client, especially one of this sort, Monty was always leery about what might come out of the woodwork and rear its ugly head at trial; best to hear it sooner rather than later. The former Mrs. Podgis could be a gold mine of information about his client, information Podgis himself would never divulge. But the talk might flow more freely if there was another woman in the group. He would shanghai Maura into taking a trip across the water.
His hopes were dashed, however, when he and Maura pulled up outside the five-storey yellow-brick building Podgis was renting while awaiting trial. The place was rundown and shabby, and the glass doors were so dingy and abraded that Maura had to hop out of the car and enter the building to see whether anyone waited in the lobby. Nobody there.
“Shit,” Monty muttered when she returned to the car. “If she’s not waiting there, it probably means he’s home, and they’re both in the apartment.”
“Easy enough to find out. What’s the apartment number?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Let’s go up.”
“The Podgises at home. Can’t quite picture it.”
“You will soon enough.”
So Monty drove to the far end of the parking lot, where the visitors’ spots were, and locked up and walked back to the building with Maura. They went inside and up to the second floor, knocked on the door, and waited. Knocked again. They heard someone shuffling to the door. Podgis in bedroom slippers?
“Who is it?” Podgis barked.
Monty considered several options — Jehovah’s Witnesses, Avon lady, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Girls to Go — but just said, “Monty.”
This was met by silence, then a belligerent, “Whaddya want?”
“Double date.”
“Fuck off.” His words sounded slurred.
“Open up, Podgis. We didn’t come all the way over here for nothing.”
“Who’s we?”
Then Monty heard Phyllis’s voice. “Perry, that’s your lawyer! Let him in!”
The door opened, and Monty was looking into the blotched red face, and breathing in the boozy fumes, of an obviously drunken Pike Podgis, still in his winter jacket. “I don’t need you here, Collins. If I want to pay for your time, I’ll choose the time. Got that?”
“Perry! Don’t be so rude to Monty.”
Phyllis Podgis, if she still went by that name, was a short, very thin woman with badly dyed brown hair in long, wavy lay
ers and thick curly bangs cascading over her forehead — the hairstyle of a country singer on a downward slide. Tiny pale eyes were set in a small, weak-looking face. A set of glaringly white teeth, although perfectly straight, looked incongruously large in the little mouth and were obviously false. She gave the newcomers a bright smile.
Monty felt an overwhelming urge to put his arms around her and shield her from the cruelties the world would surely visit upon a woman who looked like this.
“Please come in.”
Podgis turned to her. “This isn’t your house to invite people in.”
“He just got home now,” she said to Monty and Maura. “From a bar! He doesn’t hold his liquor well. He never did.”
Podgis glared daggers at her, but she did her best to ignore him. “Now, have a seat. I cleared some of his junk off the sofa.”
“Okay, thank you. Phyllis, this is my wife, Maura. Maura, I don’t believe you and Pike Podgis have been introduced.”
“I heard you didn’t have a wife anymore,” Podgis said in greeting.
Maura gave him a look that would have shrivelled several of his vital organs if he had caught it, then turned from him to Phyllis and greeted her warmly.
“Can I get you something?” Phyllis asked.
“There’s nothing to get them,” Podgis snarled, “and they’re not staying.”
“Nothing, thanks,” Maura replied, as if Podgis had not spoken.
“I brought a few things for him that he’ll like. You know, make it more homey for him being stuck here in this place by himself.”
“I’m always by myself,” he declared. “What do you think? All of a sudden I need a nanny looking after me?”
“Here.” She reached into her bag. “I brought you a couple of pictures to put on your desk.”
“What?”
“Your family, Perry. And me. To remind you people are rooting for you. You’ll beat this charge. We all know it.” She placed a frame containing two photographs on a table Podgis was using as a desk.
“Get that off there.”
She put her hand over the double frame. “No man is an island, Perry.”
“For Christ’s sake.” He looked over at Monty and Maura. And Monty saw something that looked like desperation in his eyes.
