Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  ‘But where will you go?’

  ‘Anywhere. The States, first, as soon as I can get a visa. Then – who cares? First they killed my only friend, then they killed Mr Hartford, the best boss anybody ever had. It doesn’t matter where I go or what I do.’

  I sat on the edge of the desk, the only unoccupied surface in the room. ‘Have you told your family what you plan to do?’

  ‘They don’t care. They dumped me when I moved away. Nobody cares what I do. Nobody cares if I live or die.’

  Uh-oh. Here was another casualty of Paul Hartford. Unless something or someone intervened, this young woman was going to destroy her life, either directly by means of suicide or slowly via drugs and/or alcohol.

  I pushed myself off the hard edge of the desk. I didn’t have to explain to Alan. He was already on his phone. ‘Let’s go down to the canteen and have some coffee, Teresa. You can wait to be released just as well down there as up here. It’s all right; we know the police officer in charge.’

  She was too lethargic, too sunk in her misery to object. She didn’t notice when we headed for the front door instead of the canteen, but she did rouse once we were outside on the way to our car.

  ‘Where are you going? The canteen is inside.’

  ‘I know. They make terrible coffee. I make very good coffee. It’s not far.’

  Teresa struck me as an intelligent woman. If she’d been in her normal frame of mind she would, I think, have screamed bloody murder when two almost-strangers carried her off to some unknown destination. And rightly so. But she was very far from normal and made only a token protest when Alan helped her into the car.

  ‘Home first, don’t you think?’ I murmured to Alan.

  He nodded and got into the driver’s seat, while I sat in the back with Teresa. Her tears had begun to flow again, unnoticed. I pressed a couple of tissues into her hand and let her cry.

  TWENTY

  I’m no therapist, but over the course of a rather long life I’ve come to realize that common sense and plain human kindness can deal with a lot of problems. Once we got Teresa into the house I sent her to the bathroom to wash her face and tidy up generally. When she came out I had hot coffee waiting for her.

  ‘Now then. Sugar, cream?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  Well, she looked better, but that was all. I added both to her coffee and put it in front of her. ‘Drink it. It’ll do you good. But careful – it’s hot.’

  I heard Alan answer the door, and in a moment he brought John McKenzie into the kitchen, along with a woman I’d never seen before. In her forties, she looked like everybody’s favourite aunt.

  She took over. Sitting down at the table, she smiled at Teresa. ‘Hello, Teresa. You’ve never met me, but my name is Mary Carmichael, and I understand you’re feeling a bit low.’

  John gestured with his eyebrows, and the rest of us left the room.

  ‘Who is she, John?’ I asked quietly when we were in the living room out of earshot.

  ‘A therapist the police use from time to time. She’s often called in when there’s a suicide threat, either spoken or apparent. You believe this girl is suicidal?’

  ‘I’m no psychologist, but yes, I believe so. She’s in a state of complete apathy, says no one cares about her – but not as if she’s seeking pity, just stating what she thinks is a fact. And God help us, it may be a fact, for all I know. She says her family rejected her when she left home, and her one good friend here was Elizabeth George. And she idolized Paul Hartford, so now his death on top of Elizabeth’s has swept the rug out from under her.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Look, I have to get back into the fray. They’ve brought me back into active status in the circumstances, but I’ll keep in touch. Mary came in her own car, so she has transportation.’ And he was out the door.

  ‘What now?’ I asked Alan. He shrugged. We waited.

  Finally Mary called us into the kitchen.

  ‘Teresa tells me she’s feeling pretty despondent just now, and we neither of us think it’s a good idea for her to go home alone to her apartment, where she knows no one. There are facilities where she could be looked after till she’s on her feet again, but I’m not sure that’s the best thing, either. So we’re shamelessly begging. John McKenzie tells me you’ve an extra room here. Would it be at all possible—?’

  I didn’t let her finish. ‘We’d love to have Teresa stay with us for a day or two, if that would help.’ I hoped my response was prompted by compassion rather than sleuthly curiosity, but I couldn’t be sure.

  I walked Mary to the door while Teresa sat, still impassive, still apparently unable to make any decision on her own. ‘Shall I try to talk to her about her feelings? I don’t really know how to deal with this sort of thing.’

  ‘If you can get her to talk, you can certainly listen. That may be most of what she needs just now, someone to listen. She is not, in my opinion, clinically depressed, just overwhelmed by circumstances. I’m licensed to prescribe meds, so I’ll get something that should cheer her up a bit. And I took her keys, so I can get some essentials from her flat and bring them back here. I’d just as soon she wasn’t left alone for the next couple of days. If that creates a difficult situation for you and your husband, she’ll have to go into care. You understand, this is a suicide watch situation.’

  I nodded. ‘That’s why Alan and I brought her here. It seemed to me that it wouldn’t take much to push her over the edge. And that’s where the tricky part comes in. Alan and I had planned to work with the police in investigating Paul’s death, and Elizabeth’s. We may have to talk to a good many people, and I don’t think it would be a great idea to take Teresa along.’

  ‘Possibly not. Although, since both those deaths have had such a profound effect on her, she might be willing, even eager, to help you solve them. Look, Dorothy – may I call you Dorothy?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘All right, then. You must understand, there is no magic formula for dealing with someone who is profoundly unhappy, even to the point of considering suicide. Every person is an individual, with her own needs. John tells me you’re a kind and sensible person. I think you can play it by ear.’ She pulled a card out of her purse. ‘Here’s my card, in case you need me. Any time, day or night. I’ll be back shortly with Teresa’s things and her keys, and if you have qualms or questions then, feel free to ask me. I’m on retainer to the VicPD, by the way, so there’s no question of a fee. Good luck, and thank you.’

  I took a deep breath and went back to the kitchen.

  Alan was drinking coffee and placidly reading the newspaper, every now and then commenting to Teresa about something he’d read. The scene was so calm, so normal, that my anxiety level lowered a trifle. I hoped it was having the same effect on Teresa. At least she’d stopped crying.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Alan, ‘they’re having a sale of Cowichan sweaters at the Moss Street Market this afternoon. Too bad you already bought one.’

  ‘Yes, but I was thinking of picking some up as gifts for people back home. Jane would love one, I know – if they make them big enough for her.’

  Jane Langland, our next-door neighbour, pet-sitter and all-round angel, was getting on in years and was often cold. She was also rather a large lady. As I sat trying to estimate her measurements, Teresa spoke. She had been silent for so long that I jumped.

  ‘You have a Cowichan sweater?’

  ‘Yes, I bought it when we went to Duncan the other day.’

  ‘Elizabeth had several of them. She was Cowichan, you know. Did I tell you?’

  ‘I think perhaps you did.’ No need to mention that we knew it from other sources.

  ‘She was going to make me one. She was a very good knitter. Her grandmother taught her how to make them, spinning the yarn, everything.’

  ‘They’re certainly amazing. Teresa, does your tribe have any similar crafts?’ I wanted to get her off the subject of Elizabeth.

  It wasn’t a fortunate question. ‘I never really knew my gr
andfather’s people. My father was ashamed of my mother’s mixed blood and never let me visit my grandparents. They came to see us, of course, but not often. My grandfather was proud, and he knew he was not welcome in our house. That’s why I loved it when Elizabeth told me about her people. They are not my tribe, but they are of the First Nations, as I am. Sort of.’

  I said a quick prayer for guidance, and made up my mind. ‘Look here, Teresa. I know you’re missing Elizabeth terribly. Would you like to go up to Duncan and meet some of her people?’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘No, not directly. But I have met one wonderful Cowichan woman, the one who made the sweater I bought, and I know she, and the rest, would welcome any friend of Elizabeth’s.’

  I was sticking my neck out, and I knew it. I was pretty sure the Cowichan people would welcome Teresa, but not certain. She was, after all, of mixed race. And I didn’t know if I’d be harming Teresa’s fragile emotional balance. But if we were to help the police get to the bottom of Hartford’s murder, I was convinced we had to know more about Elizabeth’s. And taking Teresa to meet Elizabeth’s family was one really good way to gain an entrée to that very private community.

  Alan gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. I looked at Teresa. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘If you think they won’t hate me, I’d like to meet them.’

  ‘Why should they hate you?’

  ‘I’m part white. The biggest part.’

  Alan cleared his throat. ‘There are no guarantees, my dear. It’s been my experience that most people respond well when they are treated with respect and accorded the dignity they deserve. The First Peoples here have been badly treated by whites for generations, but they have preserved, or regained, their way of life by sheer persistence and the dogged knowledge that they were in the right. I think, when they know that you also have been treated badly, they will open their hearts to you. But as I said – no guarantees.’

  ‘Elizabeth knew your heritage, and she was kind to you,’ I offered tentatively.

  ‘It wasn’t kindness! Not “be nice to the poor little Métis”, not at all! We were friends. We liked each other!’

  The tears were flowing again, but she was angry, which was a great improvement over apathy. ‘Then why do you think her people wouldn’t be friendly, too? She must have told them about you.’

  ‘She did! She wanted me to meet them. We were going to …’ She faded out.

  ‘Then let’s go. Right now. We can get some lunch on the way.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘But we are.’

  The doorbell rang. I’d forgotten Mary was going to bring some clothes and things for Teresa. I let Alan answer while I kept our charge talking. ‘Have you ever been up to Duncan, Teresa? It’s a very pretty little town. A bit touristy, but pleasant. You’ll like it.’

  Her momentary excitement had faded. She shrugged.

  Mary came into the room, smiling. ‘I’ve brought you a few night things and a change of clothes, love. Alan tells me you’re going on a jaunt this afternoon. Have a good time, and don’t wear yourself out.’

  I saw her to the door. ‘I wasn’t sure if this was a good idea or not. Do you think it’s okay?’

  ‘The important thing right now is to keep her occupied. She may very well nap in the car on the way up. Strong emotion is exhausting. If she does, wake her gently, and make sure she eats something. She won’t want to, but when she smells food she’ll probably be hungry. Just follow your instincts – and remember, I’m never farther away than your phone. But I don’t think you’ll need me.’

  Teresa said almost nothing on the way to Duncan, and when I looked back after a while, she had indeed fallen asleep. We were pulling into a car park in Duncan before I had the heart to wake her.

  She was a bit groggy, but went with us into the café without argument, though saying she wasn’t hungry. Alan and I ignored that and ordered hamburgers for all of us, and when they came she took a tiny bite (with a fork) and then another, and before she was aware of it had eaten about half the sandwich.

  ‘I guess I was hungry after all,’ she said with a tiny smile.

  ‘Good. Now before we do anything else, I want you to meet the lady I told you about, the one who knitted my sweater. And before that, we both need to head to the washroom.’

  ‘Oh. Am I a mess?’

  ‘Your hair is a bit mussed, and you could use some lipstick. Come along.’

  I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. She seemed a lot better, but a washroom is a great place to swallow too many pills, or stick in a needle full of oblivion. Not that she probably had with her any of those tickets out of the world, but I was taking no chances. She was coming with me now so she couldn’t say she needed later to go off by herself. And if she did, anyway, I was right behind her.

  I was afraid the dignified old woman wouldn’t be at the shop today, but I needn’t have worried. She was in the same place, knitting needles working away. If there were a few more lines in her weathered face, if she was a little slower to look up and speak to us, I didn’t wonder why. I cleared my throat. ‘You won’t remember me, and I didn’t learn your name, but we met a few days ago. You told me a lot about your people, and I bought one of your wonderful sweaters.’

  She inclined her head. ‘I do remember. You may call me Laura. You could not pronounce my tribal name.’

  ‘Then, Laura, I want to say, first, how very sorry – how very sorry – I am about the death in your family.’

  Another inclination of the head.

  ‘And I want you to meet someone who was one of Elizabeth’s good friends. This is Teresa, who works for the same company. The two women became fast friends in part because Teresa, too, is of the First Peoples.’

  Teresa, her eyes bright, bowed to the old woman, who studied her face intently and then nodded. ‘Elizabeth talked to me about you. She said you had been rejected by your white family because of your native heritage. You are not of our tribe, Teresa, but you are of our people. Elizabeth loved you. If you wish, you are welcome to visit our village and meet her family.’

  By now both were weeping quietly, and, I admit, so was I. I fished a packet of tissues out of my purse and offered them around. Laura declined and simply let the tears trickle down her lined cheeks.

  ‘We had thought,’ I said when I had blown my nose, ‘of going to the village this afternoon, if you thought we wouldn’t be intruding.’

  ‘One of my sons will take you there,’ she said. ‘But first, Teresa, I will measure you for a sweater. It would be too warm for you now, but winter will come. I will knit it myself. Come here, and tell me what pattern you would like.’

  ‘I can’t afford one,’ Teresa whispered to me.

  ‘Shh! It’s a gift. Don’t even mention money, or you’ll insult her.’

  Careful measurements were taken. Teresa was shown the various traditional patterns from which she could choose. Details were settled. Laura’s son Harold was fetched away from a workshop in the back, where he had been carving an elaborate totem.

  ‘This is Elizabeth’s friend Teresa,’ the matriarch said. ‘She is of our people. She is from another tribe, the Cree, but she loved our Elizabeth. She is as one of us. Take her to the village and let her know her family.’

  ‘I shouldn’t take you away from your work,’ Teresa began, but the young man shook his head and smiled. ‘What Grandmother says to do, we must do.’

  ‘Grandmother? She said—’

  ‘She called me her son. We are all her sons. You will soon be her daughter. I believe she is actually my great-great-aunt, but she is mother to our tribe.’ He turned to me and to Alan, who had been lurking in the background. ‘You are her friends, yes?’

  Teresa nodded firmly. ‘Very good friends.’

  Whom she has met exactly twice, I thought, but I was glad she thought of us that way.

  ‘We brought her here for a visit,’ said Alan. ‘Teresa lives in Victoria, where we are visiting
for a few days.’

  ‘And would you like to come with her to our village?’ Harold asked.

  ‘I think we’d better follow you there,’ I said, ‘because Teresa has no other way to get home. Also because we would like to meet your people, if we may.’

  ‘Before we go,’ said Alan, ‘I’d very much like to see what you’re working on, if you don’t mind. I’ve always been interested in wood carving.’

  Well, that was the first I’d heard of it, but then Alan had lived a lot of life before we met and married. Teresa and I accompanied the two men back to the workshop.

  It was untidy, as all wood shops are. Slivers of wood were everywhere, and the air was rich with the scent of … was it cedar? It reminded me of my father’s workshop when I was little. I felt instantly at home.

  ‘You see,’ Harold was saying, ‘I rough out the shape with a chainsaw, but the fine carving must be done by hand. Be sure not to put your hand down anywhere. A knife might be hidden under shavings, and they are razor-sharp.’

  Most of the knives weren’t hidden, though, but neatly hung in a rack where Harold could find them easily. They looked lethal, bright steel set into wooden handles, smoothed with long use to fit their user’s hand.

  ‘Harold.’ The voice was not loud, but it was demanding.

  ‘We’d better go. Grandmother does not wish us to delay.’

  As we left the shop, I grabbed Alan’s arm and pointed.

  ‘Yes, I saw,’ he said very quietly.

  ‘Is it—’

  ‘I think so. I’ll have to talk to Harold, but not just now.’

  No. Now was definitely not the time to talk, in front of Teresa, about the knife that was shaped into a long curve, pointed at the end. Much like the length and shape of a raptor’s talon.

  Nor about the stain that had seeped into the wooden handle.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I went in Harold’s car while Alan followed in ours. I wasn’t letting Teresa out of my sight for one second, no matter how much better she seemed. Nor was I ready to talk about that knife. I wanted to get some thoughts clear in my head first.