Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island

by Sandy Frances Duncan

  The three of them got into the Honda and headed up the driveway, Alana again in back. Kyra said, “I am so absolutely wiped.”

  “We’ll talk to the girl, then you can go back to your room. You don’t have to bother about supper.”

  “But I’m starving too.”

  “We’ll eat and leave. Sleep would be good for all of us.”

  Silence until Noel said, “We should’ve stopped by the girl’s parents’ place.”

  “Yeah,” said Kyra.

  “Why?” asked Alana.

  “Because now she’s prepared.”

  “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

  “It can cut both ways,” said Noel. “But we’re more successful just showing up at the door.”

  “How do you know? Maybe if someone had time to get ready, you’d’ve learned more. You can’t clone the situation? Do it two different ways?”

  Noel laughed. This niece was not half bad.

  They reached Heriot Bay Road. Nothing coming, just a cyclist riding away. From behind it reminded him of Tim Cooper, then he noted a van behind him and accelerated across. At the plaza he stopped in front of Food and Funk. There she was, as described—small, rich head of brown hair glowing in the angled sun, pug nose. Jeans, sandals. A T-shirt saying THE BEATINGS WILL CONTINUE UNTIL THE MORALE IMPROVES. Noel thought, maybe not so nice after all. Or a fine sense of humor.

  Bertina was staring at the approaching group. No, mainly at Alana, Noel realized.

  Kyra said, “Bertina Anderson?”

  The young woman nodded.

  Kyra made introductions. Bertina said to Alana, “Are you a detective too?”

  Alana smiled. “Just tagging along. Learning the ropes.”

  Bertina pointed to some tables. “We can sit right here.”

  The moment Bertina sat, Alana placed herself across from the girl, leaving Noel and Kyra to sit across from each other. They caught each other’s glance: Not ideal.

  Bertina sought first Noel’s then Kyra’s eyes. “So this is about Derek. How is he?”

  “Unchanged.”

  “Oh, he’s changed. From the Derek I used to know.”

  “You knew him pretty well?”

  “You could say that. We spent a lot—a lot—of time together. A year and a half.”

  “What was he like when you knew him?”

  “Sometimes sweet, gentle. Sometimes moody. Or way more than moody.”

  “More?”

  She shrugged. “Angry.”

  “At you?”

  She thought for a moment. “In those moods, at whoever happened to be nearby.”

  “Was he a tough guy?” This, suddenly from Alana.

  Noel wondered, during the second it took Bertina to answer, would she respond to a question from the trainee?

  She did. “Tough, yeah. He could hold his own. I thought about that when I heard he was beaten. Somebody must have blindsided him. Maybe two or three of them.”

  “Mean, sometimes?”

  “No, not mean. He honestly liked people. Most of the time.”

  “Can you think who it might’ve been?”

  “To beat him like that? He could tick people off but nowhere near enough for that.”

  Alana again: “Did he ever tick you off, ever?”

  Bertina stared at Alana for fifteen silent seconds before saying, “Not at first.”

  “But later?”

  “Yeah.”

  “About what?”

  For more silent seconds Bertina kept her eyes focused on the table, elbows on it, chin on her fists. “Lotsa things.”

  “For instance?”

  “Just stuff.”

  Alana leaned across the table and spoke softly. “Like seeing other girls?”

  Bertina looked up. “Not while he was going with me. He wouldn’t have dared.”

  “So he ticked you off about—?”

  Bertina waited for a couple of seconds. “I have to go. My mother’s waiting supper.”

  Alana reached over and took Bertina’s forearm. “Did he get ticked off about sex?”

  Bertina’s lips twitched. “Why’re you asking that?”

  “Lots of guys get ticked off about sex.”

  “Derek never did.” She shook her head. “In the beginning.”

  “And after?”

  Bertina pulled her lips in. Then she sighed. “Yeah.”

  Noel and Kyra watched. Two teen-aged girls in normal conversation . . . ?

  “What’d he want?”

  “You know . . .”

  “I know about some guys. I don’t know about Derek.”

  “He—he wanted more. And more. Not like early when we were going together. We’d hike, we’d swim, we’d go to the movies and sometimes we’d fuck or just hang with other kids. But more and more, sex was all he wanted.”

  Alana whispered, “Insatiable?”

  “Yeah. We never did anything else.”

  “And?”

  “No and. I told him, if we couldn’t do other things too, get lost.”

  “Off he went, just like that?”

  “Yeah. After a year and half, off he went.”

  “Did you try to patch it up? Did he?”

  “It was like we were both worn out with each other.” She stood. “I really do have to go.”

  Kyra said, “You can’t think of anyone else he might have got ticked off at?”

  Bertina shook her head.

  “How about his family?”

  A short snort. “He’d do anything for his family. He thought his father and mother were saints. He was so damn proud of his brothers. He’d do anything he could to make their lives better. Like Shane, for example— No, I’ve got get home.” She stepped over the bench.

  Kyra repeated, “He’d do anything for Shane? What did Shane need?”

  “It’s nothing. Look—”

  Kyra said, “It could be important. For Derek. You cared for him, once.”

  “Cared?” She sniffed. “I loved him.”

  “Because he was a great guy. To his family. To Shane.”

  “Yeah. Shane. Lotsa worry about Shane.”

  “But Shane was—is—in a great place. Maybe going to the Olympics.”

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “Isn’t it certain?”

  “Only if he keeps getting the support.”

  “But he’s had it for years. Austin Osborne thinks Shane is as good as there is.”

  Bertina sighed. “Austin’s had some bad luck lately. Financially. Like the whole world, right? All those companies going broke. That’s where Austin’s money is. Was.”

  “Derek told you all this?”

  “Yeah. Just before we split up. The recession hit Austin hard. I said I’d heard Austin had whacks of money, he’d been supporting Shane so long, why would he quit now? And Derek said something else Shane had told him, that maybe Shane didn’t want Austin’s support any more.”

  Was this the Shane Kyra had seen, the Shane that had to be supported in order to take the skating world by storm? “Why would Shane say something like that?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know if he did. Derek was rambling about Shane.”

  “Did Austin actually say that to Shane? That he’s going to have to stop supporting him one of these days?”

  “I guess it depends on the economy.” A rueful laugh. “Isn’t that what everybody says, it all depends on the economy?”

  • • •

  At West Road Tim turned up hill again. Then down, and eventually left onto Heriot Bay Road, more steep sections. At least the young trees let a lot of light onto the road—clear cut, his dad had told him, the year he was born. He went everywhere on his bike, his legs were strong. He was on the school track team, ran the hundred meters in just over eleven seconds and was the fastest of the four in relays. He was headed away from the ferry, few cars trying to pass but lots coming toward him. He hated it when two cars met right beside him. He was still pedaling hard as he passed under the Bristol Gree
ns arch over to the house. “Yo, Jim! You there?” No answer. In one of the greenhouses? He called into sheds one to five. No one. In six he found Jim picking green beans. Large full bags lay in the cart beside him, each bag marked ten kilos. Tim wondered how much Jim and his father got for a bag of beans. “Hey, Jim!”

  Jim whirled around. “Oh. Tim.”

  It was like he’d scared Jim. “How you doin’?”

  “Fine, great. What’re you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d go for a bike ride.”

  “Well. Nice to see you. Everybody okay at your place?”

  No, nothing was okay. What the heck was wrong with Jim. “Not too great.”

  “Derek’s stable?”

  “Yeah. Stable.” He didn’t know how to ask Jim except to ask straight out. “Some detectives Dad hired found out Derek was up at the end of Evergreen to sell pot. Eight thousand bucks’ worth. You have any idea where he got it?”

  “He went there—? He was selling pot?”

  “You’re his best friend. Did he ever say anything about dealing?”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about my brother getting beaten up. Where’d he get the pot?”

  “Tim, believe me. I don’t know.” Jim’s neck flushed red.

  “Did you give him the pot to sell?”

  “Course not. That’d be illegal. Our marijuana is medicinal. We’re not allowed to sell to anyone except Compassion clubs. It’s all controlled. You know that. God, how can you even ask me if I gave Derek the pot. That’s not allowed. Don’t go spreading rumors! We could get in trouble if people starting thinking that way! Hear me?”

  Yeah, Tim heard. The command, and the fear. Maybe it hadn’t been a great idea to ask him straight out. Better back off, get the hell out of here. “I wouldn’t start any rumor, Jim. I’m just upset about Derek.”

  Jim took a deep breath and blew the air out his mouth. “I know that, Tim. Just go home now and don’t even think those things. Okay?”

  “Okay. I won’t.” Except how can you unthink something once you’ve thought it, something so obvious? “We eat at seven. I need to be home. See you. Happy picking.” He walked out the door, then turned. Jim hadn’t moved. “Take care.”

  Now he ran to his bike, jumped on and again pedaled hard. Out under the arch, out onto the road. Okay, he’d made the suggestion. Really only a question. Jim said no. Explained ten times too hard. Kept on talking. Yeah, Jim was scared. Maybe not because of the question. Maybe he’d been scared before Tim got there. Maybe he’d worried about being accused ever since Derek got beaten up. So was it really Jim who supplied Derek with the pot? If so, he’s out $4000 and really pissed off. Maybe Jim was in Campbell River—? No way, not Jim! Maybe when he got back he should tell the detectives his suspicions? He slowed his pedaling. They could follow it up.

  He felt rather than heard the roar behind him, glanced over his shoulder. A van, coming on fast. He pulled onto the verge, soft earth—not too far, the ravine looked ragged. Boy, that van was driving way too fast for this road. And way too close to the verge—didn’t the guy see him? Oh god, he did, he was aiming at him! Tim pulled as far toward the ravine as he dared and still the van was coming on, the right fender looked huge, it struck the bike and sent it and Tim flying into the ravine—an instant idea in his brain: Jim, trying to kill him—

  SIX

  Earlier, before five, Austin had anchored the Layback, his thirty-two foot Bayliner, in the shallows of the inlet off Rebecca Spit. The surface was as flat as any along the eastern shore of southern Quadra, so no problem for the floatplane to set down, the water in the bay mirror smooth.

  The Cessna Hawk landed a couple of hundred feet from the Layback and glided toward the boat. Fifty feet away the pilot cut the engine. The left pontoon eased to the side of the boat and touched the bumpers. The pilot’s door opened. Molly dropped from the cabin onto the pontoon. She threw a rope to Austin. He wrapped it twice around the boat rail. Standing on the pontoon she opened the door to the rear compartment. Of course, Austin thought, Shu-li wouldn’t sit in the co-pilot’s seat. She wasn’t that sort of girl. But he knew she wanted to be with him today, as much as he wanted her here.

  First came her suitcase. Molly handed it to Austin. Then Shu-li, wearing jeans, a white tank-top and sandals, stepped down the two-slat ladder. Backwards, holding on tight. A view of her he enjoyed.

  The sheen of her long black hair reflected late afternoon sunlight. She stood on the pontoon beside the pilot and turned, her smile bright. “Hello, Austin.” She reached out her hand, he grabbed her wrist for support and she stepped on board. Transfer complete.

  “Hello, Shu-li,” said Austin. “Thank you, Molly. Back on Sunday, right?”

  “Three PM the order says,” said Molly. “Right here.”

  “See you then.” He released the rope from the rail and pushed the plane away.

  Molly climbed back into the cockpit, pressed her starter, engine on, the propeller whirled and the plane slid away.

  Austin watched as the wing cleared the boat, then turned to Shu-li, opened his arms wide and she came to him. They hugged, a long hug. They kissed, a quiet kiss. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Let’s go.” He turned a key and the twin Mercruiser 470s sprang to life. He pressed a button and the anchor lifted from the sea-bed, climbed up against the starboard side of the prow and settled into its slot. He sat on his plush white chair behind the wheel and engaged the engine. Shu-li reached for his free hand and squeezed it. He set a course for another inlet, smaller, just north of Heriot Bay.

  The trip took twenty minutes. He carried her case from his dock up the trail to the house and into the bedroom beside his. Steve, when he arrived tomorrow, would have the bedroom in the other wing. But Shu-li would not spend tonight in her bedroom. Friday and Saturday she’d at least start out there. As if Steve would care. At any rate they would all be here together. To destroy Harold Arensen. Difficulties remained, but do it they must.

  God, how Austin hated that man. They all did, but Austin felt he could smell the hatred each time the man’s name passed through his mind, taste the hatred each time he had to speak it. Not merely for what the man had done to him.

  Austin and Harold had little communication but even that was too much. The man intruded into Austin’s life with innuendos and lies. Unbearable moments. But soon, as plans worked out, such situations would be eliminated.

  • • •

  Two months ago, in Ottawa, Austin had picked up the phone. “We have a problem.”

  “We, or you?”

  “Both of us.”

  “Harold, get to the point.”

  “The point is your man, Randolph.”

  “Randy isn’t my man. Just a guy who works for me.”

  “And lives on your land. This is a matter of perception, Austin.”

  “What about Randy?”

  “He’s been trying to place bets.”

  “He’s a betting man. It’s his thing.”

  “Not when it’s betting on figure skating competitions.”

  Not good. “What are you talking about?”

  “Randolph went to a bookie and laid a bet on the last comp. You know that’s not allowed. And being your man, he might have had insider information.”

  “He’s not my man. Talk to him, not me.” But if it were true that Randy had tried to get odds on a skater, Harold was holding a gun to Austin’s temple. Betting on skating was forbidden. Absolutely. Unless you placed a bet with an off-shore bookie. In Bermuda or St. Kitts, say. But why should it be true, what Harold claimed?

  “Talk to him immediately. That’s all I have to say.”

  Austin had slammed the phone down. Damn that man to hell! Calling from his throne, so calm.

  Austin had phoned Randy immediately. Randy had waited seconds before answering. Austin’s guts curdled.

  “Yeah. I did try.”

  “It’s illegal.”

  “Hey, don’t stick
your poker in the stove. I’m a betting kind of guy, you know.”

  This was the worst, Harold right. “What did you think you were doing, asshole?”

  “Betting. It’s how I live, and don’t call me asshole.”

  “I can’t believe you’d do that. You are totally stupid.”

  “Don’t call me stupid.” An offended voice.

  “Randy—”

  “Look, Austin, you’ve done a lot for me, setting me up and all. If betting on skating messes you up, I won’t. Hell, I never even placed the bet, they wouldn’t let me.”

  Austin had calmed. Randy occasionally acted foolishly, but his promises were honest. “Okay, Randy. Stick to horses and poker. I’ll be out in a month.”

  “See you then.” Randy’s tone was icy, but Austin felt reassured.

  How had Harold learned about this event that hadn’t happened? Because he snuck around everybody’s blog and tweet and Facebook?

  Now Austin was at home on Quadra Island. With Shu-li. He didn’t want to think about Harold. Tomorrow they would talk about Harold. Soon Harold would fall.

  • • •

  Shu-li unpacked her suitcase. This weekend she’d have to tell Austin her part of the plan was maybe unraveling. Her skater, Miranda Steele, would take two years easily before she was ready. Miranda at thirteen had shown such promise—grace, strength, stamina. Last year something in her shifted, more attitudinal than physical but visible to anyone who’d watched her before. Her glides were looking labored; her axels ended as they should, but it looked like the girl was working hard. Judges had begun to notice and she lost points. In the last months Shu-li had spent extra time with Miranda; perhaps she’d grow beyond this strange technique block. Telling Austin would not be easy.

  She changed. When she met Austin in the kitchen, she saw they matched each other in shorts, T-shirt and Dockers. She’d cook dinner, their ritual. He told her what the fridge held, thanks to Randy. Soon she placed before them scampi and mussel linguini, steamed asparagus, baked stuffed tomatoes. Also sliced filone from the Lovin’ Oven. For dessert, a quarter honeydew melon each. And a three-year-old Rosewood Pinot Gris, a fine Okanagan wine.

  They sat on the deck, a pitcher of Pimms as digestif on the table between them, sipping from long-stemmed glasses. He watched as her tongue flicked up the mint, her teeth brought in the cucumber, her throat opened for the liquid. He did love her, even if they were together only five or six times a year, and then for only a few days. Three years ago they’d spent a week on the Mayan Riviera, but after four days she’d somehow withdrawn. Someone as lovely and gentle as Shu-li. He didn’t understand. Three days seemed to be her comfort time with him. He’d often asked why. She would reply that she didn’t know; the timing was something her body felt.