Death in the Garden City

by Jeanne M. Dams

  So I sat back and listened to Harold and Teresa as they began to get to know one another.

  There had been no time to tell him about her fragile emotional state, but he seemed to understand. He chatted about the countryside we were passing through, about his own love of wood from a tree to a finished carving. He talked about the Cowichan ways of relating to nature, and asked about her heritage.

  ‘I was brought up as a white girl,’ she said. ‘My mother wasn’t ashamed of her background – her father was the one who was a native – but Father was very prejudiced. Mother tried to teach me a little about Grandfather’s way of life, but she had to be secretive about it, because Father would be furious if he found out. I think I missed out on a lot.’

  ‘I think you did,’ said Harold quietly. ‘There are many ways to live one’s life, and the way of the white man is only one of them. It is good to know both ways, so you can choose – or take the best of both. I went to university and learned how to manage a business. The shop is mine, and it has given me a good living. But once it was going well, and I knew that I could keep it going well, I went back to my first love and studied wood-carving from the masters.’

  ‘Your tribe?’ Teresa asked.

  ‘Yes, but the masters through the ages as well, and not just workers in wood. I learned from Michelangelo a way to see the sculpture inside the wood – for him it was marble – and then cut away to find it.’

  ‘That seems like … like magic to me,’ said Teresa in an awed voice. ‘I could never do that.’

  ‘Have you ever tried?’

  ‘No. I never even thought of it. I’m not any kind of an artist.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Oh … well … I’ve never done anything like that. I just … I went to university for a little while, but I didn’t seem to fit in. So then I took a secretarial course and, when I couldn’t get a good job at home, I came here. I’m a pretty good secretary – or I was. I quit my job today.’

  Don’t ask her why, I prayed from the back seat.

  ‘Did you not like your job?’

  ‘I … well, no. I don’t suppose I did. I was reasonably well paid, for a beginner, and there were good opportunities. And then there was Elizabeth – and the owner of the company was wonderful – but with both of them gone, I …’ Her voice broke.

  ‘You liked some of the people you worked with, but not the work itself. That is not good. You must find work you enjoy.’

  ‘You make it sound easy! I’ve never been able to pick and choose. I have to eat, you know!’

  She was getting annoyed. Good! So much better than apathy. I was beginning to like and respect Harold a good deal.

  ‘It is not easy, and you are very young. I think you need to talk to Grandmother. She is very wise and will help you. One thing I can tell you, though. You were made to be happy in your life, and for that you must find the work that you were meant to do. And now we are here. I will show you how we live.’

  Teresa was quiet on the way home, but it was the silence of thought, not of despair. She made only one remark, perhaps talking mostly to herself, ‘It’s a very different way of living, isn’t it?’

  When we got to our condo, she went in with us, but sat down in the living room, a determined look in her eye. ‘You know, you don’t have to keep me here if you don’t want to. You thought I was about to kill myself, didn’t you?’

  Honesty was best. ‘We thought it was a possibility, yes,’ I replied. ‘You were very distressed.’

  ‘Yes, I was. I thought my world had come to an end. I don’t think that anymore. Harold and the others showed me that there’s a whole different way of looking at life, a way I hadn’t even imagined. I’ll be all right now.’

  ‘I’m sure you will – now. But you’re going to be lonely from time to time.’

  ‘That’s nothing new. I think I’ve been lonely all my life. I didn’t fit in. Now I’ve found a place where I might.’

  ‘And that’s a good thing,’ said Alan. ‘But it won’t solve all your problems immediately. Suppose you have a bit of supper with us and then spend the night. It’s getting late. And I don’t know about you, but Dorothy and I are tired. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘We-ell … but in the morning—’

  ‘We’ll see what the morning brings. Meanwhile, come help me make some sandwiches or something.’

  At least I think that’s what he said. It had in fact been a long and disturbing day, and the relief from severe worry about Teresa was knocking me right out. Alan had to wake me so I could eat my supper.

  The first words out of my mouth the next morning were, ‘We never got a chance to talk about that knife.’

  ‘You must have been dreaming about it, to have it pop out before you’re even properly awake. Here, have some coffee. We won’t talk about anything more taxing than the weather until you’ve come to full consciousness.’

  I obeyed, but I couldn’t stop thinking. The coffee did clear the misty tangle of ideas, so when I put my cup down I was able to be articulate. ‘Alan, he couldn’t possibly have done it. Not Harold. He’s just not a murderer. Oh, where’s Teresa?’

  ‘Still asleep. I looked in on her a few minutes ago. She’s all right, and we can speak freely. By the way, I called Mary last night to tell her about the trip to Duncan and the village. She’s going to come over in a bit to see Teresa and assess her condition. Then if she approves, we’ll take the girl home.

  ‘But about the knife. It’s certainly the right size and shape to have inflicted the wounds that killed Elizabeth. And that stain certainly looks like blood. We’ll have to tell John, and he’ll tell the RCMP, and they’ll take it in for analysis.’

  I opened my mouth to protest. Alan held up a hand. ‘There’s no option, my dear. Here we have a weapon that could have been used. We have a man with strong views about tribal culture. It isn’t a great stretch to posit a quarrel between them, about her “selling out” to the white man, a quarrel that escalated, a knife he happened to be carrying – it’s all too possible.’

  ‘It’s flat-out impossible. He’s a gentle man who would never, ever raise his hand to a woman.’

  ‘If we’re looking at our instincts, I agree with you. Looking at the evidence, I cannot.’

  ‘I need more coffee.’

  I was annoyed with Alan. Not quite angry, because he was right, and I knew it. The knife had to be taken and the stain analysed. And when it turned out to be wood sap, or Harold’s own blood from an unfortunate slip, it would work in his favour. But I was right, too. A man of his character ought not to be subject to police scrutiny. Especially a man of his background, to be investigated by the white police, would be painful, raising racial memories better forgotten.

  So often life presents a conflict not between good and bad, but between the better of two bad – or two good – choices. I sighed. ‘But we won’t tell Teresa.’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘Won’t tell me what?’

  She had appeared quietly at our door.

  There were times in my teaching career when I had to think fast. Ditto Alan as a policeman. ‘Oh, we were talking about where we wanted to take you tomorrow, but we wanted it to be a surprise, a little treat for you. Now I suppose we’ll have to ask, have you ever been to Butchart Gardens?’

  ‘No, but you don’t have to show me around. I told you, I’m over wanting to … you know.’

  So she’d reached the stage of being embarrassed about it. That was a good sign. ‘Well, we’re glad of that! Not that I really thought you’d be that stupid. But you’re going to have a lot of time on your hands until you get another job, and we enjoy your company, so think about it.’

  ‘What would you like for breakfast?’ asked Alan, the breakfast chef.

  ‘I usually just have coffee and toast.’

  ‘Now see, that’s another reason you’ve been down in the dumps. Low blood sugar will do it every time. Alan will make you one of his superb breakfasts, even thoug
h the sausages and the bacon here are quite different from what he’s used to.’

  She started to protest, then held up her hands in surrender. ‘At this rate I’ll not only be depressed, I’ll be fat!’

  ‘Fat has something to be said for it,’ said Alan. ‘Dorothy has taught me how to make French toast, and though it’s unknown in England, I’ve learnt to quite like it. Do we have any syrup, love?’

  ‘I think I saw some in the pantry.’

  Alan’s French toast has to be tasted to be believed. I ate far too much, and was wishing I’d put on trousers with an elastic waist, when Mary arrived. It didn’t take her long to pronounce Teresa well enough to go home, but she took me aside while the girl was packing up her things. ‘I was pretty sure this was just a matter of temporary despondency, and she’s come out of it nicely. But until her life improves quite a lot – new job, new friends – she could easily slip back. It becomes a pattern, you see. I plan to keep in close touch with her, and I hope you’ll do the same.’

  ‘I think she’s going to want to go back to the Cowichan village. She was strongly attracted to the people there, and the way of life. She’s never had a chance to explore her tribal roots; her white father wouldn’t even acknowledge them. Do you think it’s okay for her to get involved with the tribe?’

  ‘Did they accept her?’

  ‘Very graciously.’

  ‘Then I’d say yes, it will probably be very good for her. Does she have any money, do you know? To live on for a little while, I mean, until she can find another job.’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll ask. I think she trusts us enough not to be insulted by the question.’

  Alan drove Teresa to her flat and reported back that it was small but comfortable, and was furnished simply but tastefully. ‘I did ask her if she was all right for groceries until she received her final pay cheque, and she assured me she was fine. I think she was telling the truth. There were no signs of scrimping or making do. By the way, did you really intend to take her to Butchart? I’m not sure she’s a garden aficionada.’

  ‘No, I just said the first thing that came into my head when she came in that way. If we take her anywhere, I think it will be back to Duncan to visit with the old lady – and Harold, of course.’

  ‘Did you get any feeling of sparks flying there?’

  ‘No-o. I don’t think so. No. I think they’ve begun to think of one another as family, brother and sister or that sort of thing. She needs family, poor dear.’

  Alan nodded soberly. ‘And we’re about to launch a police investigation of her new brother. I called John about the knife, and he’s going to go pick it up. He wants us to meet him there.’

  ‘But why? Alan, I’d much rather not. It feels like … like betrayal.’

  ‘He says we’ve developed a bit of a relationship with the Cowichan. Our being there might ease tensions a bit.’

  ‘Or destroy any chance Teresa might have for finding her place in the world!’

  I grumbled all the way to Duncan. Alan was patient. ‘You’re making too much of this, you know. We’re not rapacious settlers trying to take their land or otherwise defraud or abuse them.’

  ‘We’re white. Not only that, we’re English, or you are, anyway. Racial memories go back a long way.’

  ‘And do you think the old grandmother, Laura, is an unreasonable woman who will blame us, and Teresa, for the mild and reasonable actions of the RCMP? Who are, incidentally, working to try to find the murderer of a member of her tribe?’

  ‘Oh, if you put it that way—’

  ‘What other way is there? You’re fond of saying “Put it back to front”. All right. Suppose you’re living in a place where your race, or at any rate your nationality, is in the minority, and where it has in the past been subjugated. Things are different now. You have a good deal of self-determination and economic independence. A member of the once-ruling race, a person in authority, comes with a courteous request to look at and perhaps take away an object that may have been used in a crime. How do you react?’

  I tried to consider it rationally. ‘I think I’d feel intimidated and somewhat afraid.’

  ‘Belligerent? Obstructive?’

  ‘No, because I’ve learned – my people have learned – over the generations that cooperation is safer. We have also learned, however, that in cooperating we lost nearly everything we had, including our identity.’

  ‘Agreed. So we will walk softly and be respectful. And Dorothy – this has to be done, if only to prove that Harold’s knife had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s death.’

  ‘Which I don’t for a moment believe that it did.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  The ‘I don’t agree but I’m not going to argue’ response. I hate it, and maintained a stubborn silence for the rest of the trip.

  ‘Lunch?’ Alan suggested when we reached Duncan. ‘I told John we’d meet him at the café.’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’ And that was actually true. My stomach was clenched at the thought of the ordeal ahead.

  ‘Then have some coffee with us.’

  But John didn’t want anything to eat or drink, either. He wanted to get the distasteful business behind him as soon as possible.

  Business was brisk in the crafts shop. Laura was busy measuring a woman for a sweater. She looked up and nodded and then went back to what she was doing. Alan went to a clerk and asked for Harold.

  ‘He’s in his workshop. You’ve been back there before, haven’t you? Go ahead, then.’

  I stayed in the shop, looking at sweaters and jewellery and small examples of Harold’s carving. I stayed well away from the door to the workshop. I couldn’t stand to hear the conversation.

  It was brief. John came out with a couple of plastic bags in his hand; Alan followed. Harold didn’t come out.

  John and Alan didn’t hurry out of the shop, but they didn’t linger, either. I followed, taking a deep breath when we got outside.

  ‘Now I want something to eat,’ said Alan.

  ‘And something to drink,’ said John. ‘How about this one?’

  It was a brew pub. I offered no opinion, but went along with the men. I was still too edgy to be hungry, but perhaps some cider would taste good.

  TWENTY-TWO

  It was dark and cool inside, and busy. We found a table in the corner and ordered drinks while the men looked at the menu. The drinks came, and the men ordered food. I took a long pull at my cider and said, ‘Well?’

  ‘Could have been worse,’ muttered John into his beer. ‘The guy was polite. Handed over the knife with no protest.’

  ‘Picked it up before we could stop him,’ growled Alan.

  I frowned. ‘But it’s his knife. His fingerprints would be on it no matter what.’

  ‘Unless someone else used it and then wiped it clean,’ argued John. ‘Then Harold’s new prints might be the only ones.’

  ‘But what did he say? Was he upset?’

  ‘It’s hard for us, for white men, to read a native man’s face. He didn’t sound upset. He said the knife was his, that he used it seldom, but it was useful for certain kinds of detail; that the last time he used it he had been careless and let it slip, and it gouged his other hand.’

  ‘So that explains the stain.’

  ‘If true. He did show us a scar on his left hand, below the thumb, just where a knife might go if you were pulling it toward you through tough wood and it slipped. But there were many scars on that hand – as one might expect with someone who routinely uses very sharp tools. Most of the scars looked old – again, as one might expect. Presumably as a craftsman becomes more skilled he is able to handle his tools more deftly.’

  ‘But he handed it over willingly?’

  ‘He asked us to be very careful of it, as it was an unusual tool and had been quite expensive.’

  ‘Did he ask why you wanted it?’

  ‘We said straight off that we were investigating the death of Elizabeth George,’ said Alan, ‘described the knife w
e’d noticed, and asked if we might see it. He’s not a stupid person. He got the point. And he willingly gave us a DNA sample, for matching purposes.’

  I lifted my glass, noticed the cider was all gone, and put it down again. ‘Did he … ask about Teresa at all?’

  ‘No.’ That was all Alan said, but his face was full of sorrow.

  The waiter brought our food. Alan had ordered me a sandwich – he of the low-blood-sugar mind-set. I hadn’t known I wanted it, but it was grilled salmon and smelled good, so I took a bite. Another bottle of cider also appeared in front of me without my request. That man of mine looks after me, even when – maybe especially when – I’m annoyed with him.

  ‘What’s done is done,’ I said when I had forced down as much food as I could, past the lump in my throat. ‘What now?’

  ‘I have to take this to the crime lab,’ John said. ‘I should have done it straightaway. Chain of evidence, you know. But it’s been right here in my pocket the whole time, and you’ll bear witness that nobody has tampered with it.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s irrelevant to the crime,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Yes. Well. I’d best be off.’ He finished his beer, nodded to both of us, and was gone.

  ‘And what about us? Are we off to chase yet more wild geese?’

  ‘No, I’d thought about wild hawks. Or semi-tame ones, rather. I think it would be profitable to go visit Silas Varner.’

  ‘Good grief! What on earth for? He won’t let us in anyway, without John.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I’m having this feeling, stronger and stronger all the time, that he and/or his birds are pivotal to this whole problem, and I’d like to talk to him.’

  ‘The best of British luck. And just how do you propose to storm that fortress?’

  ‘I bought him a present. Two presents, in fact. And no, you can’t see them. Possess your soul in patience.’

  ‘Hmph. Do you remember how to get there?’

  ‘No, but John told Sadie a day or two ago. Come along, darling.’

  Alan drove very slowly once we left the paved road, but I was still regretting that second cider when Sadie announced that we had arrived at our destination. He let me out before he buried the car in the hedge, as John had done. When he joined me, Alan was carrying a large bag with the logo of the crafts store.