Seaweed Under Water Read online

  “It’s part of an ongoing inquiry, and I owe you one, thanks.”

  I examined my facts: Seventeen nights earlier, Constable Denise Halvorsen had seen Janey Colby at Pinky’s. Present on that occasion also was Jack Owens, Janey’s former boyfriend. During the course of the evening, a blow delivered by an unidentified assailant had felled Jack Owens. A few hours later, Harley Rollins’ boat had been stolen from the Rainbow Motel. Were these items related in any way, or was it just simple coincidence that Janey went missing, that her boyfriend was attacked, and that Harley Rollins’ speedboat went AWOL at more or less the same time? My brain stopped working. I felt stale, listless and, to a certain extent, frustrated. I was overdue for a workout session at Moran’s Gymnasium. Punching a bag clears my mind wonderfully, sometimes.

  PC was standing outside the filing cabinet, her back arched, claws extended and purring ecstatically as she shredded another folder. I checked her litter box, filled her saucer with milk, closed the curtains and went out.

  First, I drove over to the Oak Bay Marina and parked near the Orca statue. Sunlight, glinting off the waves, was hard on my eyes, so I put my shades on. Sailboats were tacking around Jimmy Chicken Island in a light breeze. The island, I noticed, had been partially denuded of vegetation by recent grass fires. A couple of women were launching a two-person kayak at the Beach Drive launching slip.

  A shiny black Lincoln turned onto Beach Drive from Windsor Road. The car’s tinted windows prevented me from seeing the driver as it came into the marina parking lot. I ducked out of sight behind a Hummer stretch limo. Moving slowly, the Lincoln went past and parked near the coffee shop. The driver got out, locked the car then strolled down a flight of stairs out of sight. It was Tess Rollins’ steward. I’d seen that Lincoln before—in Harley Rollins’ garage.

  Coming out from behind the Hummer, I could see that Harley Rollins’ speedboat was up on blocks outside the boat-repair shop. It was a modest open Starcraft aluminum 22-footer—a basic mass-produced aluminum day-boat fitted with an adjustable canvas bimini and a Plexiglas windshield. The boat appeared to be about five years old, and the only thing special about it was two massive Evinrude outboard motors. Their propeller blades were bent like pretzels, with one blade broken off completely. Bits of pulverized wood lay deeply embedded in the boat’s crumpled aluminum bows. I peered over the gunwales. Four damp flotation cushions and a couple of damp orange life jackets lay untidily in the bilges, along with plastic buckets, dirty foam coffee cups, rubber fenders and several fathoms of galvanized-iron anchor chain. The boat’s Danforth anchor (disconnected from its chain) was stowed in a rack in the bows. One end of the anchor chain was shackled to the after bulkhead. The other end of the chain wasn’t connected to anything.

  I was pondering some mechanical damage to the boat’s after bulkhead, when a workman wearing blue dungarees emerged from the repair shop. He lit a cigarette and sighed. “Quite a mess, eh?”

  “Yes, although I suppose it can be fixed.”

  “Sure, we can fix anything, only this job won’t be cheap. Them Evinrudes will need new legs, for a start. What makes me so mad is, it’s all so bloody unnecessary. I mean, some hooligan steals the boat and takes it for a joyride, right? That’s bad enough. Only, what does he try to wreck the boat for?”

  “Beats me,” I answered truthfully.

  “Bloody maniacs. Speed demons, thieves, they’re all cut from the same cloth,” the mechanic said, with rising anger. “Tell me something. How many outboard motors do you think get stolen from this marina every year?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Last year, we lost 19. Nineteen outboard motors were pinched from this very marina. This year, we’ve already lost 10.”

  “What about security?”

  “The marina’s locked at night, on the land side. That doesn’t stop engine thieves though. They come by water, after dark. In and out in two minutes. Some of these outboards are worth thousands.”

  “Do you ever catch ’em?”

  “The odd one. Kids, mostly,” the mechanic said, tapping ash from his cigarette. “Generally, they’re too young to prosecute. The Oak Bay police take ’em to the station, give ’em a good talking to, call their parents, and that’s the end of it. Professionals never get caught.”

  “What happens to the stolen motors?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. They move ’em across the province; sell ’em through the classifieds maybe. People are always looking for reliable used outboards. There must be good money in it, because the thieves are so brazen.”

  The mechanic threw his half-smoked cigarette to the ground, trampled it underfoot and returned to his repair shop.

  I checked the rivets securing the Starcraft’s serial number plate to the hull—the rivets were original, had not been tampered with. I would have been highly surprised to find things otherwise. I took another, closer look at the mechanical damage on the rear bulkhead. It appeared as if somebody had been raising and lowering an anchor chain across the stern. I knew enough about boats to recognize this as unusual. It is customary to swing anchors over the bows. It is also customary, and wise, to keep anchors securely shackled to their chains. I was still wondering about all that when I went across to the Marina Coffee Shop.

  Ralph, Tess’s steward, was drinking coffee and eating Danish pastries at a table beside a window. I picked up a tray, bought myself coffee and smoked-salmon quiche at the lunch counter.

  I needed information, and the steward might be able to provide it. I wondered how to go about obtaining the information without setting off alarms that might reach Boss Rollins’ ear.

  I carried my tray over and said, “Remember me? I’m Silas Seaweed. Mind if I join you?”

  “Mr. Seaweed,” he said, surprised but apparently not discomfited by my arrival. “I’m Rhenquist. Ralph Rhenquist. Sure, sit down, how are you sir?”

  “Fine,” I said, smiling to let him think that nothing serious was intended. “You’re a long way from home, Ralph.”

  “Please just call me Rhenquist. It makes life so much easier if I maintain a certain distance from my employer’s friends. I hope you understand.” I grinned at him.

  He pointed across the blue sparkling waters of the bay to a headland, a mile from where we were seated. He said, “In one sense, sir, I’m not far from home, because I was born over there, on Ten Mile Point. My grandparents lived on Tudor Road in the ’20s. I was born and grew up in their house, actually.”

  “I hope you still own it, Rhenquist. A house on Ten Mile Point is worth a bundle today.”

  “Alas sir, I do not. The house went out of the hands of my family in the ’60s.”

  Rhenquist was small and wiry. His face was as brown as a walnut and as wrinkled as a dried apple. He had the modest, self-effacing manner of the perfect gentleman’s gentleman, along with the appropriate diction and vocabulary. He was wearing a neat blue suit, a white shirt and a black tie. His black shoes gleamed like wet olives.

  Rhenquist went on, “Practically speaking, nowadays I have no home. I have my own cabin on Miss Rollins’ boat, and a room in Miss Rollins’ house here in Victoria, and that’s that.”

  “What brings you here from Mowaht Bay?”

  “It’s my day off, actually. Mr. Rollins knew I was coming into town, so he asked me to take some things in to the drycleaners.”

  “Didn’t I see you drive up in a Lincoln?”

  “I suppose you did, sir. That is Mr. Harley’s car, although he hasn’t driven it for a while. It appears that he wants to start driving again soon, so he asked me to give the Lincoln a run. Make sure everything’s all right.”

  “And is it?”

  “Oh, perfectly, sir. All it needed was a good polishing and an oil change.”

  I remembered reading the police report that Harley Rollins had temporarily lost his licence over a DUI charge. “It must have been a bit awkward for Mr. Rollins, not being able to drive.”

  “Indeed it was, sir.”r />
  “So how did he get about?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know, sir. Does most of his business by telephone, I suppose. If he absolutely had to go somewhere in a hurry, he’d use a taxi, I suppose, or get a lift from one of his many friends.”

  “Or he could use a boat?” I asked innocently. “Using a good fast boat, he could get from Mowaht Bay to Victoria in what, a couple of hours?”

  “In good weather, perhaps,” Rhenquist said, adding apologetically, “Technically, his driving ban extended to boats, I believe. Besides, a boat isn’t very practical, is it? Not as a usual thing. I mean, the water’s quite often rough in Mowaht Bay and along the Straits. Especially in winter.”

  Rhenquist rose from his seat, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and said, “Goodbye, sir. I must be getting along.”

  I nodded. He went out.

  Two commercial fishermen wearing paint-smeared coveralls came in to get take-out coffee. I was going to ask them something, when my cell phone rang. It was Bernie Tapp.

  Bernie informed me, “I’m calling from headquarters. They’re taking Fred Colby and Terry Colby to the morgue right now.”

  “You think that’s wise? Terry’s got the mind of a child. Seeing what’s left of her mother will terrify her.”

  “Maybe. We’ll soon know,” Bernie replied. “Anyway, it’s up to you, you said you have an interest. If you want to witness the proceedings, better get over there.”

  “I’m at the Oak Bay Marina. Be right over.”

  “What are you doing in Oak Bay?”

  “Tell you when I see you.”

  Bernie gave an affirmative grunt and hung up. He had sounded a bit terse with me, which was unusual. I wondered why. I paid for my meal and went out of the café.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Bernie was waiting for me on the street outside the morgue; we entered together. A clerk directed us to a small, dimly lit room with curtain-draped walls where the dead woman lay on a gurney beneath a yellow plastic sheet. The room was hot and it smelled powerfully and unpleasantly—a heavy, cloying, almost sickening jungle scent. It was like being in an alligator swamp.

  Bernie and I waited for five minutes before Fred Colby came in. He walked slowly, using a walking stick, and appeared calm. Constable Denise Halvorsen and Sister Mildred escorted Terry Colby in a moment later. I wondered if Sister Mildred had sedated Terry, who appeared peaceful and composed.

  A male attendant flicked a wall switch and a small spotlight shone down on the gurney.

  Bernie murmured something to the attendant, who drew aside the yellow sheet to reveal Jane Colby’s face.

  Death had exiled Jane Colby to the Unknown World. This was probably the first dead person Terry had ever seen in her young life, and I half expected her to faint, or to become agitated. She didn’t, because Jane Colby did not look dead. It was as if she were alive, peacefully sleeping. By some wizardry, a cosmetician had transformed the ghastly object dredged from the Inner Harbour into a lovely temporary work of art.

  Jane Colby’s long yellow hair—thinking back, I suppose it must have been a wig—flowed down her face in lovely soft shiny waves, covering her ears and resting on the upper part of her shoulders. Jane’s eyes were closed; her unwrinkled unblemished skin was pale, flawless. Her red lips were full, moist-looking.

  When Fred Colby, visibly moved, leaned forward to kiss his daughter, the morgue attendant restrained him gently and whispered something in his ear. Tears welled up in Mr. Colby’s eyes. Denise Halvorsen handed Mr. Colby a tissue, and he blew his nose.

  As for Terry, she let out a small gasp and asked her mother to open her eyes.

  Speaking in her normal voice, Sister Mildred said, “Terry, dear. Your mommy can’t open her eyes, because she is sleeping. Your mommy is in heaven with Jesus.”

  “When can I talk to her?” Terry asked, in a baby-like voice.

  “We don’t know that yet, do we?” Sister Mildred replied. “That all depends upon when Jesus wants you to meet your mommy, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes, it does, so you be a good girl and remember to say your prayers,” Sister Mildred said, putting an arm around Terry’s shoulder.

  Bernie cleared his throat. Denise didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. The dead woman, until now officially anonymous, was anonymous no longer. This was Jane Colby, for sure.

  Sister Mildred took Terry’s hand and led her from the room.

  Bernie Tapp, Fred Colby and I went into the morgue office, where Colby signed a few necessary forms. When these formalities were completed, the three of us went outside onto the street. Earlier, Mr. Colby had mentioned that he had come to the morgue in a cab, so Bernie offered to drive him home. Mr. Colby accepted.

  Bernie said to me, “Listen, Silas, You and me, we’ve got a few things to talk about. Meet me in Mom’s Café?”

  “See you in half an hour,” I said.

  Bernie and Frederick Colby went off.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  I got into the loaner and let the engine run for a minute while I switched on the radio and scanned the horizon for Interceptors. There weren’t any, so I put the loaner into gear and headed for James Bay. My car radio was tuned to a rock station, playing Pink Floyd’s The Dark Side of the Moon. Then the disc jockey reminded us that Syd Barrett, Pink Floyd’s co-founder, had died prematurely, at the age of 60. The jockey then went on to say that Barrett had left the band in l968 because of mental instability, exacerbated by his use of LSD. I seemed to recall that Barrett had died of diabetes, which we used to call sugar diabetes, which is the disease ravaging North American Indians, which . . . I tried to concentrate on my driving. It wasn’t easy. Sometimes I get these loops playing endlessly inside my mind. I finally deleted the diabetes loop, whereupon I became conscious of my geographical surroundings. I was in James Bay.

  Again, I got that odd feeling I sometimes get when going along James Bay’s quiet, tree-lined streets, the feeling that sends shivers down my back. It starts between my shoulder blades and works south. That day, I felt it rather powerfully. Maybe it was because I couldn’t entirely banish the memory of Jane Colby, lying dead in the morgue. Maybe it was because another Ford Interceptor was following me. And maybe it was something else entirely. I made a mental note to consult Chief Alphonse about all this the next time I saw him.

  I stopped the loaner in the dusty unpaved parking lot outside Mom’s Café. Within shouting distance of Victoria’s Fisherman’s Marina, the café is a rusty corrugated-iron building, mainly patronized, until recently, by fishermen and blue-collar workers who know good hamburgers when they taste them. Mom’s had recently been discovered by the local smart set. Today there were BMWs and Audis in the lot, in addition to pickup trucks. I noticed a shiny Ford Mustang parked outside the café’s rear entrance, where, atop a garbage can, a Siamese cat was grooming itself. I glanced at my wristwatch and saw that it was nearly 3 pm. Where had the day gone?

  I went in and sat at a vinyl and duct-tape upholstered booth near a window. The girl behind the lunch counter picked up a coffee pot and a menu, and came over to see what I wanted. I ordered coffee and apple pie à la mode. She filled my cup and went back to propping up the counter.

  The same two fishermen that I’d seen in the Oak Bay Marina’s coffee shop were standing together beside Mom’s Wurlitzer, pondering the music selections, which have changed little since Jim Morrison was laid to rest in Paris’s Père Lachaise cemetery. They fed the Wurlitzer some coins and listened in respectful silence to “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” the song that members of the Pink Floyd band had recorded as a tribute to their troubled former bandmate.

  I was eating pie and ice cream, brooding about the impermanence of life, when Bernie Tapp came in. Bernie signalled for coffee en route to my table.

  I stated, quite loudly, “I’m being followed.”

  Bernie’s features sharpened. Three young women seated across the room turned to glower.

  Deliberately stri
dent, I went on, “Everywhere I go I see unmarked Ford cars. The guys driving ’em pretend they’re fishermen, but they can’t kid me. I know what they really are. They’re gumshoes.”

  Speaking in the usual casual tone he uses when he’s lying, Bernie said, “You’re paranoid, pal. Better rein yourself in. If you don’t, the next thing you know you’ll be hearing strange voices. You’ll be buttonholing strangers on the street, end up tranked to the eyeballs in a psych ward, a mere shadow of your former self.”

  “Hogwash,” I said. “If those guys by the Wurlitzer aren’t working for Internal Affairs, that spider crawling through your hair is a vampire bat.”

  Brushing a hand across his hairy scalp, Bernie scowled at the men lounging by the Wurlitzer. They went out without a word. “Assholes,” Bernie snarled. “Bunch of buffoons and nitwits.”

  I said, “Better come clean, Bernie, and tell me who they are and what they want. We know each other too well. You ought to know better’n try to flannel me.”

  “I don’t know anything about it. Your pal Bulloch probably borrowed them from the Mounties,” Bernie said, as he stared into space. I followed his glance. The two “fishermen” were getting into their Ford Mustang. When they drove off, dust rose from beneath their wheels, until they reached blacktop, on Superior Street.

  “Remember telling me about the first time you ran into Terry Colby?” Bernie asked.

  “I remember.”

  “How did she know then that her mother was in trouble?”

  “Terry didn’t tell me that her mother was in trouble. Terry told me that she’d lost her mother.”

  “Okay, but how did Terry know that? I mean, there she is, isolated in that care home, not talking to anybody. It was only a week or so since she’d seen her mother.”

  “Sorry, Bernie, I don’t see the relevance, and besides, you’re stalling. It’s time you came clean.”

  Bernie picked up his coffee cup, drank and then set the cup down on the table in the exact centre of a paper napkin. “As far as you are concerned, buddy, the late great Detective Chief Inspector Bulloch has reached the end of his rope. Complaints about you keep rolling into headquarters, and Bulloch has had it up to here with you. When he leaves the force and sinks out of sight forever, he’d like to take you under with him.”