Where the Bodies Lie

by Mark Lisac

  “Do you suppose that makes him trustworthy?”

  “He’s a lawyer, and he drives the kind of car that says he has money and doesn’t mind who knows it. You could say that makes him untrustworthy. Or you could say he’s plain enough to enjoy driving the car and not worry about what people think. How much did you tell him?”

  “Enough to pique his interest, I think. The cars. And Mary’s little lamb.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  She turned down the heat to keep the pot at a slow boil, put the vegetables into the covered plastic tray and put the tray into the microwave, setting the time but not starting it yet.

  “I liked his looks and the way he talked. Maybe he can be trusted, maybe he can’t. Right now there aren’t any other choices out there. He heard enough to stay interested. If he’s interested, he’ll be around, and I need someone on my side.”

  “Your brother not being enough.”

  “Gordon, we’ve been through this. I don’t want to drag you in any more than you have been by the fact you’re my brother. You’re too close. I need someone from outside — outside my family, outside this town. A city lawyer from a well connected firm fills the bill.”

  “But it’s still just a matter of playing defence? You’re not lookin’ to send letters in plain brown envelopes to politicians or newspapers?”

  “Any politicians in particular?”

  “No need to get touchy. I just want to have at least a rough idea of what you’re doing.”

  She placed the pork chops in the frying pan. The sizzle was loud enough that she raised her voice a notch to be heard, but the tightness in her chest was already forcing it up.

  “The purpose is to have insurance. This is dangerous. I only half-understand what John found, but that’s enough to tell me it could hurt people badly. Important people with power. They probably think I must know everything. The more they are uncertain about where all the evidence is, the safer I am.”

  “I keep telling you, those clowns don’t want anything to do with hurting people directly. They tear people down with words and keep them from getting jobs.”

  She slammed down the fork that she had used to lift the pork chops. “And John getting killed was an accident?”

  “He was killed by a moron who started out with a pea brain and let even that go to rot.”

  “Some people with bigger brains are morons, too. I want you to get that package you hid for me. I don’t want it left in an old metal box in the Franz brothers’ workplace anymore.”

  “Why? Someone might take it into their head to search my shop. They wouldn’t have any reason to think there’s something in the Franzes’ shop. Even if they did it would take them two days to find it.”

  “Just do it, Gordon. Find a reason to go to their shop on Friday. On Saturday I’m going to go to the grocery store as usual, but I’ll be gone longer than usual.”

  7

  ASHER LOOKED AROUND THE FRESHLY OPENED ITALIAN bistro. He saw a lot of polished bronze and recessed lights. His former wife had chosen it. He knew its novelty was one reason why. He also knew that, left to her own devices, she would probably have picked somewhere with even more atmosphere and even more exotic salads. Suggesting an Italian place was a concession to his preferences. She’d had no reason to turn on the warmth, so he credited her effort to be friendly.

  He looked through the translucent glass of the inner door and saw her familiar shape — her hair pulled up and away from her shoulders, the winter coat with the flared bottom that he knew was in style this year but that suited her taste.

  Sandra Asher. She had taken his name and kept it after the divorce because she preferred its poetic flow to the harsher sound of her original Sandra McCrimmon. He knew it had been an unemotional decision for her. He could not shake the last remnant of hope that he was wrong and that she still felt more than wary affection for him.

  She swept into the room, found him with a generous smile, hung her coat on a hook by the wall and came forward to give him a kiss on the cheek before accepting the chair the waitress held out for her.

  She looked at him for a second before saying, “How are you, Harry?”

  “Happy to see you. You’re looking well.”

  “It was a good week at work. The new clients are taking my ideas for their living room and dining room. They’re not messing too much with the kitchen plan. Thank God for people who have both money and the sense to let a professional provide them with good taste.”

  Her lips were the bright, deep red she usually preferred. He remembered her saying that a good, bright lipstick lit up a woman’s face. He noted happily, although with a tinge of regret, that his old physical response to the light might be starting to erode into clinical detachment. He wondered if that was a temporary respite or the start of a long pulling away. He didn’t know which possibility he preferred.

  The waitress, who looked to be a student from the university, came back to hand out the menus and ask about wine. Sandra looked at the list and asked if it was possible to try the house wine before ordering.

  “Certainly,” the waitress said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Sandra looked at Asher again. “How was Las Vegas?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Fun. Big shows. Bright lights. Non-stop action. You just have to keep inside the casinos and not go out where you can see how sad people look in the daylight.”

  “Win?”

  “At poker. About eight thousand.”

  “So you were betting big.”

  “It’s a matter of proportion. The bets aren’t so big if you measure them against the size of the pots.”

  “They are if you don’t take many pots.”

  “That’s one of the things I like about the game. You learn that if you’re competitive with the other players at the table, you can take some losses. Sooner or later it will be your turn to win.”

  The waitress returned with a glass with one sip of red wine in it. Sandra took it, asking what variety it was. She heard “Chianti” as she tipped the glass to her mouth. She considered a moment and said, “I’d like the see the list, please.” As she checked the wine list, she asked what the waitress would recommend on the menu. The girl admitted she hadn’t tried everything but said she liked the chicken, and the oil and garlic pasta with prawns.

  “What’s your signature dish?” Sandra asked.

  “Well,” said the girl, “I’ve heard people say they really like the scaloppine al limone.”

  “I’ll have that. A bottle of Venetian white all right with you, Harry?”

  “Sure. I’ll have the same.”

  The waitress gathered the menus and wine list and walked off to the kitchen.

  “You’ve been busy,” Sandra said. “It’s not like you to have to schedule dinner days in advance.”

  “I’ve been travelling and doing other work outside the office. It’s a little job for the premier.”

  “Oh? And what does Jimmy Could-Care-Less want?”

  “He wants to know things. Knowledge gives you power but it works in reverse, too. The more power you have, the more knowledge you need. Or want even if you don’t need it.”

  “Mmm. Maybe that’s why they’ve finally starting appointing cabinet ministers who’ve been to university.”

  “This job’s about a minister who never went and never wanted to. Victor Turlock killed that hapless accountant down in Barnsdale but he never really explained why. Jimmy’s worried there’s something behind it that could come up and really bite him, or the party. It doesn’t help that Orion Dever
eaux won the by-election to replace Turlock and looks like he could be more than just a general pain in the ass.”

  “He probably won’t be until he figures out whether his role model is Savonarola or Scrooge.”

  Asher felt a twinge as as he once again appreciated her ability to make connections such as one linking Renaissance history next to a reference to A Christmas Carol. He knew that turn of mind was behind her much admired ability to create striking contrasts when she designed rooms. Just like he knew she would watch the Alastair Sim version of A Christmas Carol again this year, and once again say she should tackle the novel.

  “Better for him if he picks Scrooge,” Asher said. “He had a happy ending. Savonarola lasted a couple of years burning books and paintings and reputations before he got burned at the stake himself.”

  “Mmm. Remember that square in Florence? Where he was burned? It looks so controlled, like an outdoor art gallery. Then you think about the passions that were unleashed there. Five hundred years isn’t that long ago. The square has an odd feel. That grim face on the statue of Neptune. The stone buildings that could pass for jails. You can almost feel something in the air that sends a chill down your spine. Being inside the Uffizi and the Accademia feels safer.”

  “It’s a toss-up what’s better. Safer inside the galleries. But if you want real life, that took place outside. Still does.”

  The wine arrived. Sandra waited until the glass had been poured. She liked to drink it with a bite of bread, and the bread touched with the better-quality oil and vinegar that the bistro served.

  “And if you lived there?” she asked. “Which would you prefer?”

  “I don’t know. I liked the beautiful things in the galleries. But all that beauty was half-imagined, maybe never more than half-real. Like the Birth of Venus. The woman rising from the sea is beautiful. Botticelli probably painted her from what he remembered of a young woman named Simonetta Vespucci. She died years before he did the painting. Even if it’s true that he loved her all his life, how well did he really remember her? How well did he really know her? Maybe it doesn’t matter. What he remembered was beautiful enough. I’d like to have been there to see her in real life.”

  “Maybe you should go back for another visit sometime. She may have distant relatives still walking in the streets.”

  “Could have enjoyed being there longer, I suppose. I wouldn’t have been any more than a third-line checker in the NHL, probably a fourth-line scrapper. Could have played top six someplace like Bolzano, though, and had a nice little career there. As long as I watched my pasta intake.”

  “You’re being awfully contemplative today. That’s one thing I always liked about you. I never knew whether I’d be talking to the hockey player or the lawyer with an eye for art and a reasonable acquaintance with Europe.”

  “I’m afraid Europe may start to get displaced by Mexico. Winters may be getting warmer but they seem longer. Getting away seems more appealing every year. I wanted to ask a few things about people in the party, Sandra.”

  “Ahh, an ulterior motive. Not strictly a pleasant evening out with your ex-wife? Don’t tell me this dinner is going to end up in your expense account.”

  “Sorry. I’d have come for dinner anyway. Just a few questions. I need help trying to understand the Apson killing.”

  “And with my family connections, you’d expect me to know. The way you always expected me to keep track of your shirts and suits.”

  “I’ve been getting better at that. Was Turlock as surly and shifty when he was younger?”

  Sandra opened her lips and ran her tongue across her teeth while she looked over his shoulder at the restaurant wall, as if it were a screen showing her old memories.

  “I remember dad saying he was glad that Turlock was never close to being made Energy minister. He made enough trouble in Highways and Municipal Affairs and Government Services. No brains, no respect for his deputy ministers, no clue that he had any reason to listen to advice. His main qualifications were his ability to get re-elected decade after decade and his absolute loyalty to Manchester. Dad said that was the one idea in his head.”

  “But he never had a violent streak in him?”

  “There were rumours about the way he treated horses and his wife. You know he was prone to bullying people around the legislature, if they were lower down the ladder. Or if they gossiped about his funny land deals. Nothing like murder.”

  The word hung in the air. Both of them hoped the waitress hadn’t picked it up as she arrived with the veal.

  “What about the Finleys? Down in Barnsdale. Apson’s wife is a Finley. The family was thick with the local party establishment during her father and grandfather’s time.”

  “Fairly conventional. They supported Turlock, of course, but they weren’t thought of as belonging to the crazy wing of the party. Balanced budgets and endless complaints about Ottawa, yes. Wanting our own currency, no. Gordon and Angela were both departures. I knew them a bit in university, Angela much more. Gordon’s aptitudes were a little more hands-on practical than what you’d usually find in a family of small-town store owners. Angela didn’t seem cut out for a husband and a quiet life in the sticks. She was never more than ordinarily pretty but she had a vulnerable manner and a fondness for Scotch. Cheap Scotch most of the time, but expensive when she could get it. She found she could have a choice if she attracted a guy whose parents were generous or who’d piled up a stake working on the rigs between semesters. I don’t know how she ended up back in Barnsdale with an unremarkable accountant. Maybe the big world outside scared her. Harry, did I see your eyes dilate a little when I mentioned she was a party girl?”

  “You wouldn’t call her a party girl now. There’s something there under that mousy schoolmarm exterior, though. And you’d still recognize an air of vulnerability. She looked scared. If she’s been prone to fear most of her life, maybe it’s nothing.”

  “You mean it could be something but you don’t want me involved.”

  “It’s a job, Sandra. I’m getting paid for it. I’ll handle it myself. I never tried to suggest colour schemes or room arrangements to you when your clients wanted a house decorated tastefully.”

  “No, you never did. I probably should have thanked you more for that.”

  “Was there ever any trouble between the Finleys and Turlock that you know of ?”

  She looked up at the wall again and then back at him. “They were different sorts of people. That didn’t constitute trouble. Turlock tolerated a lot of people he didn’t exactly like. It was okay with him as long as they were willing to work on his campaigns and keep the constituency association running in between elections. He could be a bastard if they weren’t. The local establishment — you’d have to put the Finleys in that category — tolerated him because he kept the opposition parties a non-factor. And because he would do what he was told when the word came from the premier’s office.”

  “Apson was working on something. He was digging up something. Whatever it was had to have been some kind of threat to George Manchester. Can you think of anything connected with the Barnsdale area that could have threatened the Parson’s reputation in any way?”

  “Aside from the fact he went on the record saying that Turlock was an honest man and an excellent representative for the local population? No. This veal is excellent. I’ll have to come back with my friends. I haven’t told you about the trip that Helen and Claire and I took to St. John’s. We had a wonderful time. We went to a bar where they put fishermen’s hats on our heads, and had us drink screech and sing ‘I’s the B’y.’ It’s a really colourful place. The buildings are all red and yellow and blue. And the people have a real sense of local patriotism. You can tell they’r
e proud of where they live and that they feel they really belong.”

  “Must have been quite a change.”

  “Acid-tongued when you want to be, still. You may not be proud of being from here but you belong here, you know.”

  “I guess I do. Don’t belong anywhere else. I never understood being proud of a place, though. You can appreciate a place. Like things about it or not. It’s there and you live with it. Pride in a place is pointless. It’s people you really belong to. Even then, you can like them or not, feel comfortable with them or not, feel affection for them or not, admire them or not. Pride is a fragile and dangerous thing.”

  “And goeth before the fall? Now you’re sounding like the Parson and his followers.”

  “It’s a matter of being practical. I’ll leave the moral preaching to them.”

  “Your attraction to being practical is strong but hardly consistent.”

  “Granted. If I were consistent I’d be boring. You never would have married me.”

  “And why did you marry me? What did you really see in me?”

  He grinned. “It was your father’s brandy cabinet. He opened it for me the second time I picked you up at your parents’ place. Quality stock, and he trusted me enough to see it and have a taste. How could I resist someone raised in that kind of atmosphere?”

  “If only you really had been more practical. It was all the visits to gravesites that did it. We drifted apart in other ways, but that was where it started.”

  “I know.”

  They stayed silent while the waitress collected their plates and brought coffee.