Seaweed on Ice Page 10

  The clerk frowned. “No. Ellen phoned in sick. I’m filling in.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, sliding a 20-dollar bill across the counter. “I expected to see her here.”

  “Ellen might be in tomorrow. I hope so,” she added, with a touch of impatience. “She’s been missing a lot of time lately. This is supposed to be my day off.” She eyed my uniform as she handed me my change. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “It’s personal. I’m an old friend of the family. I just heard she was working here. I’ve lost track of where she’s living. I think she moved from that old place on McKenzie.”

  “I didn’t know she’d lived on McKenzie,” the clerk said. “Far as I know, Ellen’s always lived on Gladstone Avenue.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I always carry a Victoria phone book in my car. There was only one E. Lemieux listed on Gladstone Avenue. I drove over there and cruised slowly along until I spotted the address. The house was a small 1940s frame bungalow located about two blocks from the Belfry Theatre, in Victoria’s Fernwood district.

  I parked a hundred yards down the street. I was considering my next move when a woman I assumed was Ellen came out the front door and walked down the driveway to a Monte Carlo, carrying an overnight bag. Hurriedly I pulled out my digital camera and managed to get a few telescopic shots. I was surprised to discover that she was Native. She stood a little over five feet tall and was, to my eyes at least, extremely attractive.

  She put the overnight bag in the back seat, then got in and started the engine. But instead of driving off, she waited in the car. After a couple of minutes she gave the horn a couple of impatient toots, whereupon the front door of her house swung open. A man came out, lugging a heavy canvas bag—it was Lennie Jim. I took some more shots of Lennie putting his bag into the trunk and climbing into the passenger seat. They drove off.

  It was time to take stock, think things through. But I had the excitement born of hunting down a dangerous quarry. The excitement my ancestors must have felt while harpooning massive whales with wooden spears. Well, if my hunch was right, Ellen Lemieux was a worthy adversary. I cautioned myself not to tailor facts to fit the wild theories growing in my mind.

  I parked around the corner, walked back to Ellen’s house and rang the doorbell. There was no reply. Lace curtains parted in the window of the house next door. An unshaven, bald man was watching me.

  At the back of the house was a small yard with a couple of apple trees, a patch of frozen lawn and a vegetable garden with several glass-covered cold frames. A black plastic compost bin stood beside a galvanized steel garbage can. I peeked into Ellen’s basement through slats in the window blinds and saw a big white freezer and neatly stacked patio furniture.

  A male voice said, “Ellen ain’t home, officer. Can I help you?”

  It was the neighbour, standing in his back doorway. He was about 60 and was wearing jeans and a heavy bomber jacket zipped up to his chin.

  “I’m here about the bylaws,” I said officiously.

  “She never mentioned bylaws to me,” Baldy said in an aggrieved tone.

  “Why should she?” I snapped. “What’s it got to do with you?”

  I turned my back on him before he could answer and studied Lemieux’s back door. It was a cheap invitation to burglary. Two minutes with a Swiss army knife, and anyone could be in the house.

  At the bottom of the yard was a shed with a half-opened door. Baldy watched me go inside it. The building had a recently raked dirt floor. Garden tools were arranged on shelves and hanging from hooks. There was a tidy workbench with special containers and jars for storing nails and screws. A wheelbarrow stood next to a new-looking trail bike with a high-tech helmet dangling from its handlebars. There was also one of those heavy two-wheeled dollies used by movers. The dolly and the wheelbarrow were stencilled with the name of the garden shop where Ellen worked.

  Baldy had gone back inside his house, leaving his door ajar. A woman with curlers in her hair, wearing a grey apron, was watching me from the doorway now. She was clutching a small fluffy black and white dog to her bosom and seemed half asleep.

  This must be a low-crime neighbourhood, I reflected, if Ellen could leave valuable garden tools in an unlocked shed. She could thank neighbours like Baldy for that. Well, I’d learned one thing—Ellen Lemieux was neat.

  Her garbage can was half full of household waste and papers. I lifted the bag out of the container and slung it over my shoulder. Baldy was shouting something, but I didn’t look back.

  Snow had started to descend from fast-travelling clouds, sprinkling large, soft flakes on Gladstone Avenue and on a lone man plodding wearily toward Fernwood’s homeless shelter.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Back at the office, I covered my desk with newspapers and dumped Ellen Lemieux’s garbage onto it. Wearing latex gloves, I picked my way through the labyrinth of her private life.

  Ellen liked McCain’s frozen vegetables, TV dinners, Ernest and Julio Gallo’s burgundy wine and Weston’s arrowroot cookies. She dined at Chinese restaurants and bought her underwear from Victoria’s Secret. When it came to jeans, she preferred the Bay. To my surprise, I found a discarded early Christmas card sent to her by a George Purdy on Adanac Street. Ellen’s last telephone bill was $43. Her house was owned and managed by Buntins Properties. Rent was a surprisingly low $850 per month.

  I phoned Buntins Properties and asked for the rentals manager.

  A man came on and said, “Jacques here. How may I help you?”

  “Mr. Jacques, this is Jim Tucker of Ace Housing in Kelowna,” I lied. “One of your tenants named your agency as a reference. I’m just checking.”

  “Don’t blame you. Some people don’t deserve a home, but once they’re in, you’re dead—can’t move them out with a crowbar. Who are we talking about?”

  “A woman called Ellen Lemieux. Can you confirm that she’s a good tenant?”

  “I’m pretty busy,” Jacques grumbled in a tone of long-suffering impatience. I thought I’d lost him, but he said, “Hang on a minute.” There was a pause, then Jacques came back on, “Yes,” he said. “We’ve had no complaints. She’s okay so far; looks after the house, pays her rent on time.”

  “How about Ms. Lemieux’s previous rentals, or personal references?”

  “Lemme see. Yes. She had a reference from a personal friend on Adanac Street. They said she was okay. I don’t see any problem.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Jacques.”

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked.

  I hung up quickly and noted the return address on the Christmas card from George Purdy.

  I was writing up my log when my phone rang. It was Lou, reminding me about his daily special—today it was Hungarian goulash in a secret sauce. He wanted to know whether he should send some over.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll be right there.”

  As I locked the door and started down the street, a man who had been loitering near my doorway suddenly turned and hurried away. I was so preoccupied thinking about Ellen Lemieux that I hardly noticed. I was halfway into Lou’s café before it penetrated my consciousness that the loiterer was a Native man wearing a black toque and a navy pea jacket.

  I looked back. He had crossed the street to a bus stop and was glaring at me, his dark features bulging with malice. It was Lennie Jim. A line of traffic and a double-decker bus prevented me from crossing the street. By the time I did, Lennie was nowhere to be seen.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  The goulash was delicious. Lou served it personally and with a flourish, a red-and-white-checked napkin over his arm. The chef’s special came with focaccia from Ottavio’s Bakery. Lou sat across the table, watching me eat and waiting for compliments.

  I said, “If you put any more red wine in this sauce, buddy, you’d need a licence from the liquor board.”

  Lou—artistically sensitive to critical nuances—bridled. His eyebrows shot up and he snapped, “What? Is not good enough for you?”<
br />
  “It’s wonderful,” I said sincerely. “I’m crazy about it. All I’m saying, Lou, is if you served this gravy in a glass, a pint would put most people under the table.”

  Lou interpreted this as praise. He said proudly, “I make the wine myself. Is Alicante. I buy my grapes from a Portuguese guy. He brings ’em up from California in a reefer truck.”

  “I know,” I said. “One August I helped you make the stuff, remember? Me, Don Gain and Richard Marshall went with you to a yard somewhere near Hillside, picked up 10 flats of grapes. We took ’em to your house, pulled the stems.”

  “That’s right. The three of us got pissed.” Lou sighed with satisfaction, remembering. “Alicante is always good.”

  “I like your Chardonnay too.”

  “Chardonnay is okay for oak-barrel snobs,” said Lou, with undisguised scorn. “Me, I prefer Alicante.”

  Bernie Tapp came in and sat down with us. He ordered goulash too, and when Lou had gone to fetch it, he said, “Heard the latest on Richard Hendrix?”

  I nodded. “CFAX says he was nabbed up-island. Has he made a statement?”

  “A statement, not a confession. He says he heard about the Tranter killing on the radio, panicked and ran away.”

  “What do the Mounties think?”

  “They say he’s acting crazy. Think he’s capable of anything.”

  Lou brought Bernie’s dinner. As he ate, Bernie mused, “It’s funny, the things people get up to in this town.”

  “That right?” I asked. “Funnier than politics, or funnier than Laurel and Hardy?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you and you can decide.” He frowned. “A concerned citizen phoned the station earlier. Complained about a cop driving a red car. Might be a Jaguar, or a Triumph, he said. It could even be an MG coupe. Apparently, this cop is going around Fernwood, collecting people’s garbage.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I was going to tell you about that.”

  “Tell me now.”

  I detailed what I’d found in Ellen’s garbage. Listening, Bernie tore a piece of focaccia bread in half, dipped it in Lou’s sauce and ate without commenting on either the sauce or my story.

  I changed the subject. “Did you identify any interesting prints from Mrs. Tranter’s hotel room?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nothing significant. Hotel staff, mostly.”

  “But none of Hendrix’s?”

  “Correct,” he sighed. “So why did Hendrix do a runner?”

  I had no answer for that one. Maybe he had just panicked, like he had told Felicity and the police in Campbell River.

  “Look,” Bernie said. “Hendrix, Lofthouse and Lofthouse’s secretary were the only people who knew Mrs. Tranter was staying at the Red Barn that night. Lofthouse has an alibi. His secretary has no motive. That leaves Hendrix.”

  “Not necessarily,” I countered. “All we know is somebody phoned Lofthouse’s office to ask for his whereabouts that night. It wasn’t necessarily Hendrix.”

  “At the moment, my money’s on Hendrix,” Bernie said. “One way or another, we’ll find out.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I got up at seven and confronted the day’s first major decision: whether to wear my uniform or not. I ended up wearing a green Gore-Tex jacket over a plaid wool shirt, Dockers and waterproof boots. After breakfast and two cups of black coffee, I went outside. Snow-removal gangs had been out all night, and the streets were passable. I drove into town without difficulty, parked in the View Street parkade and walked around the corner to Sammy Lofthouse’s office on Douglas Street.

  The young woman at the reception desk was slim and cheerful, and when I entered she flashed beautiful white teeth.

  “I’m Sergeant Seaweed. Ms. Sleight is expecting me.”

  A door with an opaque glass panel swung open at my words. Grace Sleight waved to me to come through, and we shook hands.

  Grace’s office had hardwood floors accented with Persian rugs. Fenwick Lansdowne originals hung on walls covered with Chinese paper. Potted palms flanked two green suede wing chairs near the window. She motioned for me to sit, but she remained standing, biting her lips and nervously crossing and recrossing her arms. She looked like a woman in mourning. Her black dress emphasized her pale face and the dark crescents under her eyes.

  I said, “Thou shalt not worry. It’s one commandment we should all obey.”

  “It’s nervousness, that’s all. I’m glad to see you, but things are a mess around here, and getting worse. If Sam doesn’t show up in a day or two, this whole menagerie will come tumbling down. That’s the trouble with one-man law firms. I’m supposed to be Sammy’s chief clerk, but even I don’t know what he’s doing half the time. He runs this office out of a briefcase, mostly.”

  “Does Derek Battle know about Mrs. Tranter’s will yet?”

  She hesitated. “What the hell,” she said, wincing. “I guess it makes no difference. The answer is no. Mr. Battle doesn’t know anything yet. When he does find out, he’ll be furious.”

  “Well, he must know Mrs. Tranter’s been murdered. He’s probably taking steps to probate the old will.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s going to be a real mess.”

  “What’s to stop you from phoning Battle yourself?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “He’ll find out eventually if he doesn’t know already.”

  “I just hope he finds out from Sam, instead of me.”

  “It follows, from what you’ve said, that Ellen Lemieux doesn’t know about her windfall yet?”

  “I haven’t told her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Grace’s chin quivered and her body began to sag. She sat at her desk and cradled her head in her arms. I got up and put a hand on her shoulder as grief overcame her. In a voice muffled by her sleeves she sobbed, “Sammy thinks he’s such a hotshot, you know, shooting his mouth off all the time, badmouthing everybody, playing the big-time lawyer. But it’s all an act. He’s never gotten over Serena walking out on him and taking the kids with her.”

  Grace’s mascara had run. Patches of face powder smudged her black sleeves. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, then her hand came up and closed over mine. “I’ll tell you the truth, Silas,” she said, her voice catching. “I think Sammy’s dead.” And with that she excused herself to freshen up in the ladies’ room.

  I went over to the window. Outside, Douglas Street was crowded. Shoppers were admiring Christmas displays in the Bay Centre’s big windows. A Salvation Army soldier stood with his collection kettle at the mall’s main entrance, ringing his bell. In the adjacent block, pedestrians skirted a gang of curb kids congregated near McDonald’s. Somebody driving a rusty pickup truck was trying to make an illegal left turn up View Street.

  Grace returned and we stood shoulder to shoulder, looking out the window in silence. I wondered if Sammy and Grace had ever been lovers. Probably not. Sammy liked flashy women—20 years younger than himself. Grace was middle-aged. Plain. Honest. With a pang, I saw Grace’s tragedy. It was not that she had loved Sammy and lost. He had never even noticed her.

  “Sammy gave me some cash, asked me to buy Christmas toys for his kids again. He always said he had no taste for shopping, but really he hadn’t the patience. I generally buy his little boy a game. Game Boy is still big. What do you think?”

  “I think Sammy’s kid would love Game Boy.”

  Grace thought for a moment, then said, “Sammy’s got enemies all over, Silas. Tough guys with no brains who think he owes them.”

  I nodded. Sammy had been a prosecutor once. Enemies went with the job.

  Grace’s tears had dried up, but an aura of misery hung about her; she was twisting her watchband distractedly. “As soon as Sammy figured out how the system worked, he changed sides,” she said. “The big money is in defending crooks, not prosecuting them. A lot of his clients took a walk, but sometimes, the way Sam worked, somebody else would feel the heat instead. He used informers, set people up, coached witnesses
.”

  “Do you see any connection between Mrs. Tranter’s death and Sammy’s disappearance?”

  She shook her head uncertainly. “I did at first, but after I got to thinking about it, I don’t see how it’s possible. When Mrs. Tranter was killed, Sammy was miles away.”

  “Can you think of anybody in particular who might be down on Sammy just now?”

  “Nobody in particular. There are 20 people in the joint who would knife Sammy if they could. Another 50 are walking the streets down there. Take your pick—the town has its share of angry cons.”

  It was time for me to get out of there. “Keep your chin up, Grace,” I said, and gave her a quick hug. “Maybe we’re worrying unnecessarily. Sammy will probably haul his sorry ass in here tomorrow, ask us what all this fuss was about.”

  “That would be quite a Christmas present, all right.”

  I paused at the door, my hand on the doorknob. “Does the name Isaac Schwartz mean anything to you?”

  She thought for a moment. “The old gentleman they found murdered?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I saw his name in the paper, but that’s all.”

  I left Grace standing by her window.

  The receptionist’s red fingernails buzzed like hummingbirds over her keyboard in the outer office. I tried to call Felicity Exeter, but my cell wouldn’t work, even when I shook it and muttered vicious threats. The receptionist smiled, pointed to a telephone in the waiting area and said, “Better use that one, sir, before you bust a gut.”

  I tried again and got the same recorded message—Felicity’s line was still out of service. The receptionist was staring at her computer monitor, but it was obvious she’d been ready to listen in on my side of the call. I was sorry to disappoint her.