Seaweed on Ice Read online

  I spent only a few minutes in the cave, maybe 5 or 10, before swimming out. I was half-paralyzed with cold, speechless almost, when I got inside the tent. The chief, eating roasted clams, waited until I’d soaked up some heat before asking me how I’d liked the cave.

  “I liked Disney World better.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said, “because you’ve got at least one more visit ahead of you.”

  “Not today, I hope.”

  “Not today, Silas,” he said, handing me a nice fat clam on the half-shell, “but soon.”

  Rain hammered the roof of the tent. We were in no hurry to leave. I spent some time telling Chief Numcamais about finding Isaac Schwartz, and the curious marks I’d seen on his body. He asked me to describe the marks in detail. I did the best I could. After thinking for a while, he said, “They’re not Coast Salish designs. But I’ve seen Nimpkish petroglyph markings up the coast that looked a bit like that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tuttle’s Antique Auctions was located on Wharf Street, close to the Seattle ferry terminal. Twenty small Canadian flags dangled limply from short poles above the display windows. Wednesday auctions had been held continuously at Tuttle’s for more than a hundred years. Most of Victoria’s early settlers emigrated from the British Isles, bringing family treasures with them. Four times annually, Tuttle’s held special auctions attracting bidders from Los Angeles, New York and London. Prices sometimes matched those obtained at Christie’s or Sotheby’s.

  When I got there, the staff was arranging lots for the next sale. Viewing areas had been roped off. At the back of the salesroom was an office with windows overlooking the auction floor. A fresh-looking woman who wouldn’t qualify as an antique for a long time was doing paperwork behind a mahogany counter straight out of a Dickens novel. I told her my business and she directed me upstairs to Mary Jung’s office.

  I found Ms. Jung inside what might qualify as the city’s untidiest office—apart from my own. Papers and photographs cluttered her desk. In and out baskets overflowed, and a printer was spewing more paper into a tray. Dozens of pictures in heavy gilt frames leaned against the walls. Objets d’art bearing numbered tags stood on shelves or on the floor. When I entered, Ms. Jung was speaking into one of two telephones. She waved me to a seat, and I stepped carefully towards her desk.

  Ms. Jung had one of those serene faces that give otherwise ordinary-looking women an exotic kind of beauty. She had black, shoulder-length hair and wore a black silk jacket over a white cotton shirt unbuttoned far enough to excite a eunuch. She finished her conversation, but before we could speak her second phone rang. She answered it, then asked the clerk to hold all her calls. She eyed my uniform and asked, “How may I help you, officer?”

  I told her I was trying to unravel a 50-year-old mystery.

  “Really,” she said, sounding intrigued. “Tell me more.”

  “An art-collector friend of mine passed away recently. Years ago, he divested himself of some Old Master drawings. After he died, an auction catalogue for one of the Tuttle’s sales was found among his effects.”

  My words triggered something. She crossed to a filing cabinet, removed an accordion folder and brought it back to her desk. She untied the red string holding down the flap and pulled out a handwritten note. She read it, then put it back in the folder. “If you want information about past sales, there isn’t much I’m willing to tell you. People who entrust their business to us expect us to keep it private.”

  Her fingers were beating a little tattoo on the edge of her desk as she added briskly, “What, exactly, do you want?”

  I studied her. She was like stainless steel—smooth and probably bulletproof. I said, “A couple of things. First, I’d appreciate it if you could tell me a little bit about the trade in Old Master drawings.”

  “Exploring even a fraction of that business would take all day, and I don’t have all day.” She examined the polish on her long fingernails. “You’ll find reference books in any decent library.”

  I thought that was it, but after a second she looked at me again and relented. “This will have to be brief,” she said, “but here goes.” She settled back in her chair.

  “Painters like Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Rubens, and of course lesser artists, made hundreds of sketches—little compositions on paper before they got started on their oil paintings. Paper isn’t a very durable material. Old inks fade. Things get lost, or thrown away. Only a fraction of the drawings still survive. Even so, until fairly recently it was possible to buy good Old Master drawings for relatively little. Today, even works by third-rate artists can fetch enormous sums. When wealthy Japanese buyers came into the market, prices went stratospheric, the market went crazy. Now German and Italian buyers are bidding up good work as well. We expect this trend to continue.”

  She gazed thoughtfully at me as she considered her next words. “Tuttle’s is a relatively small auction house, but a lot of fairly high-end Old Master drawings are consigned to us. Internationally, there are four or five important sales every year at Christie’s, Sotheby’s and Swann’s. Those sales attract buyers with very deep pockets indeed. But buying drawings can be risky. It’s a specialized field, and there are plenty of fakes floating around.” Her bright eyes were unblinking as she added, “It’s contradictory. Beautiful art attracts some rather ugly people.”

  “In the catalogue we found, somebody had highlighted certain lots, all of them drawings. What I’d like to know is, who consigned those drawings here? Who bought them?”

  The phone rang again. Ms. Jung leaned forward and picked it up, listened for a moment, then replaced it without speaking. She said, “You see how it is? The phone rings even when I ask them to hold my calls. I’m pretty busy, so I won’t waste words. Consignors’ and purchasers’ names are confidential. I won’t divulge any names without a court order.”

  My hopes were fading along with Mary Jung’s smile, but I said, “There’s one thing you can tell me without betraying a confidence ...” I broke off as somebody rapped on the office door. A man appeared and said nervously, “I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Jung, but Mr. Palfrey’s downstairs again. He says it can’t wait.”

  She nodded calmly. She returned the accordion folder to the cabinet, excused herself and left the room.

  I went to the cabinet immediately, took out the folder and opened it. Many of the drawings had been consigned by Isaac Schwartz—the rest by a Mrs. Dorothy Baineston. I returned the folder to the drawer and left the office quickly, almost colliding with Ms Jung.

  “You’re right, Ms. Jung,” I told her. “My request for information is unreasonable. I won’t waste any more of your time. Thanks.”

  She gave me a surprised look and was about to speak, but I was already walking away.

  Back on the street, outside Tuttle’s, it occurred to me that some of my actions were verging on the furtive and shabby. But I’d promised Moran I’d find Isaac. And I’d promised myself that after finding him, I’d find his killer. I rationalized all the way to the public library.

  My police uniform attracted curious glances as I dug books from the racks. The one that particularly interested me was the pre-war German memoir by Angela Knoeffler. I made myself comfortable in a quiet carrel and turned to the section about the dinner party in Berlin-Dahlem—the party hosted by Sir Hugh Baineston, the diplomat art collector. It seemed obvious now—Baineston was the man to whom Isaac Schwartz had entrusted his drawings before being arrested by the Nazis.

  Then I checked copies of Debrett’s Peerage, Burke’s Landed Gentry and Who’s Who for the years between 1937 and 1950. Sir Hugh Baineston made the lists for the years 1937, 1938 and 1939. After that he vanished.

  Born near Hoylake, Cheshire, in 1909, the only son of an English baronet, Baineston had been educated at Rossall School and at Cambridge. Afterwards he joined the British diplomatic service. Baineston succeeded to the baronetcy upon the death of his father, in 1938. He married Dorothy Jane Booth, of Fleetwood, Lancashir
e. Before the Second World War, Baineston had been second secretary at the Berlin embassy. Had he been killed during the war? If he was still alive, Sir Hugh would now be in his 90s.

  I went back to my office, took out my Isaac Schwartz file and for the fourth time studied the Prowdes of Peeling book. Thistime I concentrated on photographs. There were pictures of tennis parties, garden parties, church fetes and bazaars, gymkhanas, yachting weekends. Young men in striped blazers and straw boaters and ladies in long dresses and beautiful hats evoked the sense of an elegant vanished age. Many pictures showed the Prowde family gathered on the steps of the house, flanked by maids, chauffeurs, housekeepers and butlers.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Mason’s Health Care Services was located in a refurbished Georgian house on Superior Street. I parked my MG on a yellow line and went inside.

  A passing truck brought the house perceptibly alive, ruffling the leaves of a potted ficus. A middle-aged nurse in a white uniform sat behind a desk. A lapel badge identified her as Tilly Muir, RN. It’s strange, but I now have difficulty remembering exactly what she looked like. Her face was somehow two-dimensional, her natural expression severe. My instincts told me that extracting useful information from Nurse Muir would take effort and tact. But I was wrong. She loved to talk, and she wasn’t the least bit intimidated by a man in uniform.

  “Hello,” she said, smiling up at me. “You look healthy enough. Sure you’re in the right place?”

  “Sergeant Seaweed. I’m inquiring about someone who used to work here.”

  “Seaweed!” she laughed. “You don’t look like a Bladderwort, so you must be related to the Kelps, of Wreck Beach.”

  I chuckled at her joke, but quickly moved on.

  “I’m checking up on a woman named Ellen Lemieux,” I told her. “I believe Ellen was with your agency at one time.”

  “My agency!” she echoed. “I wish it was. I’d be rich. But I’m just a wage slave for Doc Mason, the old fart. I could make twice as much working in a hospital, except I hate shift work.”

  “Me too. Graveyard especially.”

  Her severe look returned. “What do you want to know about Ellen Lemieux?”

  “Can you confirm that she was a former employee?”

  “Sure. But we haven’t seen her in a while. She’s not in trouble or anything, is she?”

  “It’s just routine.”

  “It’s none of my business, but Ellen always seemed kind of lost to me,” Tilly confided.

  “Lost?”

  “Out of the loop. Loner. You’d try communicating, but she’d be staring into space. You knew she wasn’t listening. Tell the truth, I felt sorry for her.”

  “Was she a good employee?”

  “Hard to say, to be honest. The thing is, after a bit of initial training, our workers get very little supervision. We send them out and they’re on their own, unless they get into trouble. If there’s an emergency they either phone me or call 911. Ellen seemed to be capable. Never caused any trouble for the agency. Clients never complained.”

  “Was Ellen a trained nurse?”

  “Are you kidding? This is a bedpans-and-diapers service. We provide caretakers for the elderly, not trained nurses. Don’t quote me on that, though,” she added hastily.

  “Did you know Ellen socially, or just professionally?”

  “Both, at first. You know Ellen has Indian blood?”

  “I’ve always assumed so.”

  “Before landing in Victoria, she lived her whole life on northern reserves. Didn’t know a soul here. She was lonely, so I took her to an Outdoor Club dance once. Introduced her to a few people. Ellen wasn’t into dancing; she was just crazy to meet men, anybody in trousers. With her looks, she didn’t need to work hard.”

  Tilly produced a strained smile. “Ellen invited me to her house one night. Two guys were there, drinking and carrying on. Proper wolves. It wasn’t my scene, so I left in a hurry. One guy came outside, wanted to walk me home. I got rid of him, but after that it was strictly business with me and Ellen.”

  I played a wild card. “These guys. Did one of them happen to be a big, long-haired Native?”

  Her eyes widened, and I knew I’d hit the mark. “That’s right,” she said. “He’s the one tried to tag along home with me.”

  “Remember his name?”

  “Morley, I think? Maybe Maurice? I’m not sure. It’s a while ago. Is he in trouble?”

  “This is an ongoing inquiry. You never know what’s relevant, what isn’t.”

  “It’s probably a good thing Ellen isn’t with us anymore. People like her can drag an agency’s name into the mud, I’ve seen it happen.”

  “You say there were no complaints from clients.”

  “Ellen only had two clients while she was with us. They’ve both passed away since.”

  Tilly consulted the Rolodex on her desk. “Ellen’s first assignment was Mr. Terrel. That job lasted two weeks. After that, she had Mrs. Micklethwaite, in that lovely old house on Adanac Street. When Mrs. Micklethwaite passed away, Ellen left the agency.”

  “Was she dismissed?”

  “Heavens, no. But Doctor Mason only pays minimum wage; it’s hard enough to get people, let alone keep ’em.”

  A little bell rang in my head. Adanac Street. Then I remembered. George Purdy—the man who had sent Ellen Lemieux a Christmas card—also lived on Adanac.

  I thanked Tilly for her assistance and went out onto Superior Street. A female commissionaire had just shoved a ticket under my wiper. Another 30 bucks down the drain. Audibly cursing the iniquities of fate, I got into my car and started the engine. The commissionaire, glancing my way, saw that I was in uniform and came back.

  “Sorry about the ticket. I didn’t realize this was a cop’s car,” she said. ”How come you didn’t hang a police tag on your rear-view mirror?”

  “I forgot.”

  “You know there isn’t a thing I can do now,” she said, showing me her little hand-held computer. “Your ticket’s in the system already.”

  “You realize, I hope, that a single ticket infraction could permanently ruin my chances of promotion?”

  Her face fell.

  “Just kidding,” I said, putting the MG into gear. “I’ve already been promoted above my ability.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  My next stop was Adanac Street, in the Fairfield neighbourhood of Victoria, near the Cook Street village. Some of Victoria’s early lumber barons built their mansions here, on acreages overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Olympic Mountains. Over subsequent decades, old-money families had retreated to the Uplands and Oak Bay. Grand homes still remained, but many had been converted into apartments, their acreages subdivided into smaller lots.

  In one of Adanac Street’s well-tended yards, an old man was stringing Christmas lights across some low hedges that lined his front walk. He had an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. If I had remembered the house number correctly, this was George Purdy. I stopped beside his gate and said hello. The old-timer seemed more than happy to stop work and chat awhile. He dropped an orange extension cord on the ground and in a gruff but not unfriendly voice asked, “Something I can do for you, officer?”

  I pointed to the small house next door. “Isn’t that the Micklethwaites’ old place?”

  “Sure. The Micklethwaites were my neighbours for 30 years.” Purdy sighed. “The Tans own the place now, but they’re always working so I never see ’em.” He grinned. “The Chinese don’t seem that sociable. Not like the English.”

  “The Micklethwaites were English?”

  “Born and bred,” Purdy answered readily. “Jim and his missus came out from the Old Country in the ’50s. Jim worked in Eaton’s furniture department till the day he died. Jim’s wife and mine were great pals.” Purdy shook his head. “They’re all gone now. I’m the only one left.”

  “You’ve seen some changes,” I said, to draw him out.

  “Changes, but not necessarily for the better. When we bo
ught this house, you could still see the strait from the upstairs windows. Now they’ve built that apartment building over there so my view’s gone. In the old days, Mary and me would stroll down to the park at the bottom of the street. Sit on a bench and watch the boats sail by.”

  Purdy stopped talking to light his pipe.

  “So the Micklethwaites were English?” I repeated.

  “Both of ’em. Loved his garden, Jim did. Used to talk about the lovely gardens over in the Old Country. Must have been really something, those places—all lawns and statues and ornamental ponds. Jim used to show me pictures of this big house he worked at before he came to Canada.”

  “Was Micklethwaite a gardener there?”

  The old man laughed and shook his head. “Over home he was a butler. Employed by some English toff. Jim’s father and grandfather had been servants for the same family. But then the war came and Jim did five years in the British army. Saw a bit of life. When the war ended the world had changed, and so had Jim. Opening doors for people who thought they were above him? He couldn’t do it anymore.”

  “Did the Micklethwaites have children?”

  For the first time, the old man looked wary. Instead of answering, he scratched the tip of his chin with the bowl of his pipe, bright eyes glittering. “Something wrong?” he asked. “This a criminal matter?”

  “Probably not. Just routine.”

  The old man shrugged. “Well, I guess your questions can’t hurt the Micklethwaites now, can they? They’re both dead and buried. And to answer your question, the Micklethwaites were childless. They had no relations in the whole world, as far as I know. When Mrs. Micklethwaite was widowed and taken with her last illness, a nurse came to look after her. Lived in the house permanent like, till Mrs. Micklethwaite passed away. Very sudden, it was.”

  “That nurse was Ellen Lemieux, I suppose?”

  “That’s right. Ellen. A nice girl, beautiful. But very quiet. Kept to herself. I liked her, though. When she cooked for Mrs. M. she’d sometimes bring me over some.” He thought for a moment. “I haven’t seen Ellen since Mrs. Micklethwaite died, but she did telephone me a couple of times.”