Seaweed Under Water Page 2

  “She ran away from her care home this morning. Terry’s worried about her mother, and I promised Terry I’d look into it.”

  “Where’s Terry now?”

  “I took her back to Crowe Street.”

  He appeared to forget me for a moment. Shaking his head unhappily, he backed into a vestibule and said, “I’m a little worried about Jane myself. You’d better come in.”

  We went into a wide living room that extended the full depth of the bungalow. It smelled of furniture polish and cigarettes. Curtains were closed to keep the sun out. Fred switched on a pedestal lamp; light fell on a sofa, easy chairs and an old-fashioned console TV. Flowers fresh from Mr. Colby’s garden stood in a vase on a gleaming dining table. The room’s predominant feature was a shiny black grand piano covered with photographs in silver frames. I glanced at the photographs briefly before he invited me to sit on the sofa.

  He said, “Sorry. Every time I hear about Terry I expect the worst and forget my manners.”

  I wondered what he was apologizing for.

  Moving carefully on arthritic legs, Mr. Colby lowered himself into an easy chair and asked, “Well, officer, how can I help you?”

  “It would be best if I spoke to Terry’s mother first.”

  He smiled thinly. “That might be difficult. My daughter has her own agenda. She comes and goes as she pleases. At the moment, I don’t know where she is.”

  Mr. Colby might have been worried about his daughter, but he seemed slightly aggrieved, as well. I said, “I was given to understand that she lived here.”

  “She does, occasionally. Some time back, Jane moved in with Jack Owens. When that relationship ended, Jane didn’t come back here. This place is really too big for one person, so I put it on the market.” His gaze faltering, he added dolefully, “When it sells I shall move into an apartment, if I can find one that allows dogs. I won’t need the piano—Jane’s the only one who ever played it. She plays beautifully; it’s her one real talent.”

  There was an element of insincerity in his words and manner. I asked, “Can you suggest where Jane might be now?”

  “She might be anywhere,” he replied in the same hollow tone. “It’s a sad commentary on modern life, when a fellow has to confess he’s lost track of his own child.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “A week, maybe 10 days ago. She popped around and I remember asking her for some mo—”

  He was about to say money, but caught himself in time.

  “Did your granddaughter telephone you today, or call around to the house?”

  “Either is possible, I was out shopping for groceries earlier. That Thrifty store on Fairfield Road. I was gone for an hour, and I don’t have an answering machine. Terry might have phoned me, or dropped by during my absence.”

  “Does she have a door key?”

  “Goodness no. Poor Terry. She’s not responsible, you see. I don’t mean she’s a bad girl, not at all, she’s a sweetheart really.”

  “And she didn’t leave you a note, obviously.”

  “Didn’t, and couldn’t. Terry can neither read nor write—not even her own name, poor thing.”

  “Do you have a picture of Jane? I’ll see it’s returned to you.”

  He nodded. Sitting on the chair had stiffened Mr. Colby’s joints and it was a struggle for him to get to his feet and straighten out. He moved slowly across to the piano, pointed at a picture and said, “That’s Jane. With Terry in Mexico when Terry was little.”

  He went out of the room.

  The picture in question had been photographed on a tropical beach fringed with palm trees. Terry’s mother was a slim handsome Caucasian woman wearing a flattering bikini. She had her father’s pale colouring and yellow hair. Terry—a black-haired, copper-skinned child with a shy vulnerable face—stood beside her mother, one slender arm hooked around her leg.

  I was brooding about the picture and what it signified, when Mr. Colby returned.

  “I hope this photograph will do. It was taken about 10 years ago. Jane’s changed somewhat, since then,” he said, handing me a six-by-eight glossy. This one showed Jane posed on the deck of a large motor yacht, looking elegant in a blue blazer and white pleated skirt.

  Mr. Colby cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been thinking. If you want to find Jane quickly, your best bet is to check at the Rainbow Motel. Failing that, you might call Jack Owens. I suppose you know Jack.”

  I shook my head.

  “He’s that chartered accountant fellow. I ought to warn you that Jack and Jane are—” Mr. Colby searched for an appropriate word “—estranged, at present. Jack Owens isn’t the easiest fellow to get along with, in my opinion. I think she’s well rid of him, frankly.”

  “Terry’s part Native, so who was her father?”

  My abrupt question unsettled him. His cheeks went red and he said huffily, “Terry’s father was Neville Rollins, an aboriginal logger from Mowaht Bay. Neville was a peculiar character, a most unpleasant, sadistic individual. I must admit I wasn’t too happy when, all those long years ago, Jane came home and announced their engagement.” Frowning, he added, “You’ll think me racist, but with all due respect, officer, there’s more to it than that. I believed them unsuited. As it turned out, I was right.”

  That final platitude annoyed me, but I forced a grin and he went on, “Jane and Neville got married 20-odd years ago. In the Anglican church at Duncan,” Mr. Colby said, speaking with his head cocked slightly to one side and frowning as if reliving unpleasant memories. “Jane used to come here covered in bruises. She’d make excuses. It was a while before I realized that Neville was battering her. Thank God, Neville suddenly disappeared when Terry was a year old. Some people think that he drowned, and it’s possible, I suppose. Anyway, Jane’s life’s been difficult since, although she carried on as best she could, working at all sorts of things.”

  “What’s this about a possible drowning?”

  “As I believe I mentioned, Neville was in the logging business—in partnership with his brother, Harley.”

  Fred Colby stopped talking and gazed at me expectantly. If he had expected his words to provoke a strong reaction, he was not disappointed.

  Born blind, Harley Rollins had lived in an almost catatonic state for the first six years of his life, cut off from the outside world and rarely speaking (or being spoken to). At the age of seven, Harley was taken to Vancouver where an ophthalmologist operated successfully upon his eyes. Since then, Harley Rollins had become a severe embarrassment to the Coast Salish Nation. Now a millionaire businessman referred to as Boss Rollins, he was widely suspected of being a witch.

  A century and a half ago, Natives accused of witchcraft were shunned, even murdered, by relatives of people they allegedly harmed. Even today, for the most part, witches go about their affairs in secret. Just the same, many reports of witchcraft had come out of Mowaht Bay in recent years, some of which had been taken seriously. Boss Rollins and I hadn’t met; I’d never in my life visited the Mowaht Bay reserve. Nevertheless, since I was one of the few Native policemen in these parts, Boss Rollins probably knew as much about my reputation as I knew about his.

  Fred Colby was smiling. I said, “Tell me more.”

  “The Rollins brothers combined the letters of their first names, HA-rley and NE-ville, and called themselves HANE Logging. The day he went missing, Neville had been working one of those floating log rafts. It’s been suggested that Neville fell into the water. Nobody else was there at the time so we’ll never know. The thing is, he was never seen again. After seven years, the courts declared Neville legally dead.”

  “Jane never remarried?”

  “No. Didn’t choose to, though she had plenty of offers. With Neville gone, she stopped using the name Rollins and reverted to her maiden name. Things haven’t been easy for Jane, especially since Terry turned out to be mentally challenged.”

  “What’s wrong with Terry?”

  “It’s not genetic, if that’s w
hat you’re thinking,” Mr. Colby said defensively. “Terry was born normal. Shortly after her first birthday, Terry received brain injuries when the car in which she was a passenger hit a tree. My daughter was driving and it is possible that she had been drinking. Jane wasn’t charged. All things considered, I suppose the authorities felt she had suffered enough. Neville hadn’t been missing long. With all his faults, Jane loved her husband and she was upset, naturally.”

  All things considered, Fred Colby didn’t know much and what he did know, or say, hadn’t helped me much. Sudden moisture showed in his eyes. He cleared his throat, took a short stubby pipe from a side table and began to stuff it with tobacco from a humidor. I felt sorry for him and disappointed for myself.

  I said, “You’ll be hearing from the police again, if it turns out that Jane is actually missing. I’d have to notify Missing Persons. You’ll be asked to make a formal statement, fill in forms etcetera. Is that all right with you?”

  His voice trembling a little, Mr. Colby said, “Fine, Mr. Seaweed, I’ll go along with whatever you think best. Let’s just hope you find her instead.”

  I murmured some comforting platitude, shook hands with Mr. Colby and left him alone with his memories. The Airedale was waiting for me outside. Wagging his tail and panting, he dropped his ball at my feet. I threw it across the lawn into a clump of rhododendrons and looked at my wristwatch. It was eleven o’clock. The dog was still sniffing his ball out when I left.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Victoria’s Rainbow Motel was located on the Inner Harbour’s last remaining chunk of underdeveloped waterfront. It sat on a woodsy acre—originally a hunting lodge built in the days when most Vancouver Island residents were furry, four-legged and unaccustomed to the sound of firearms. Fred Colby hadn’t mentioned it, but among the Coast Salish people, it was common knowledge that Boss Rollins owned the place. The motel’s front door, made of iron-bound oak planks, was shut. I pushed it open and walked clear through the building without seeing anyone.

  Ten yards of pebbled beach separated the back of the motel from tidewater. A small wooden boat shack stood on the west side of the property, along with a dozen upturned aluminum rental boats. A blue heron knee deep in water was keeping an eye on a mangy-looking dog loping toward it along the shore. When the dog got too close, the heron raised its wings, bent its spindly legs and heaved itself into the sky. The squawking bird’s flight carried it over the Mayan Girl, a large motor yacht moored at the lodge’s private jetty. In my mind’s eye, I pictured a glamorous Jane Colby, posed on the yacht’s wide deck.

  A hundred yards or so to my left, a wilderness of tall masts rose above Fisherman’s Wharf. Kayakers and small ferries crisscrossed the harbour between B.C.’s legislative buildings and the Ocean Pointe Resort. A floating crane was lifting driftwood and other floating debris from the water and dumping it on a barge near the seaplane terminal.

  I went back inside the motel. Once a destination for well-heeled sportsmen, it now possessed the sad ambience of shady inns catering to lonely misfits and drunks. To the left of the reception counter, glass-paneled doors opened onto a dining room. Similar doors led to a lounge. A hand-lettered cardboard sign informed me that the dining room was closed. The door opening onto a lounge/bar was closed, but it opened at my touch, and I entered.

  The lounge was uncomfortably warm. Flames, leaping in a fireplace, threw flickering yellow patterns onto varnished walls and a cross-beamed ceiling. Somebody had been burning papers in there—half-burnt ash lay thickly on the hearth. Leather armchairs exuded the breath of ancient cigars. Apart from a stuffed cougar snarling up at the mounted head of an elk, the lounge was unoccupied.

  I heard sirens and looked outside. Three prowlies appeared along Belleville Street, turned up Menzies Street and raced toward Dallas Road on what may or may not have been urgent police business. Some guys just like to put earmuffs on and make lots of noise. I felt cranky and didn’t know why—James Bay affects me that way sometimes.

  I was behind the reception counter, searching for the motel’s guest register and fighting a vague feeling of irritation, when a tanned, handsome young body-builder showed up. Wide as a refrigerator, with halitosis and dirty fingernails, he was wearing a shirt that fitted him like a second skin, showing off mighty biceps and triceps. His torso had more bumps than an egg carton. The plastic nametag pinned to his shirt told me that he was Karl Berger, the manager. He might have been carved from wood, except for moist rubbery lips and moist blue eyes. He leaned across the reception counter until our noses almost touched and said, “There’s a sign on the door saying the motel’s closed, mister. What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “Making routine inquiries, sir,” I answered politely. “I’m Sergeant Seaweed, Victoria PD.”

  Karl’s eyes narrowed. “Seaweed? We got Siwash cops now?”

  My irritation increased. “I’m not a Siwash. I’m Coast Salish.”

  Karl was one of those self-assured young people with little patience for those they assume to be lower down the intelligence ladder. He sneered. “Salish, smalish. I guess you’re here about our missing speedboat.”

  “What missing boat is that?”

  “Our speedboat,” he repeated derisively. “The one got stolen a few days back. The one you’re supposed to be looking for.”

  “I’m sure an active investigation is proceeding. I assume it’s one of your rental boats.”

  “No, I just told you. It’s a speedboat. Them rentals out there are just piddle-ass sport-fishing boats.”

  “So the motel is closed?”

  “Don’t you read?” he asked impatiently. “I told you, there’s a sign on the front door.”

  “No there isn’t.”

  Karl stormed across the front door, looked in vain for a sign that wasn’t there and came slowly back.

  “I understand that Jane Colby stays here. Which is her room?”

  “Don’t you listen? The place is closed. If it’s closed it means nobody’s staying here.”

  “May I see your guest registers?”

  “There is no register.”

  “Operating a motel without guest registers is a criminal offence. If convicted you can be sentenced to three years in prison,” I told him untruthfully.

  His irritating sneer faded a trifle. I said, “I demand to see the register. If you don’t produce it immediately, you’ll be charged with obstructing justice.”

  “Big deal,” Karl snapped. “How come you’re not chasing robbers?”

  I produced a cell phone from my pocket and pointed to a button. “Listen, Karl,” I said. “If I push this, you’ll be inside a paddy wagon before you can pop another steroid.”

  After a moment of indecision, Karl grabbed a key from its hook behind the counter. Muttering to himself, he marched along a corridor and slammed the back door open. Pebbles crunched underfoot as we crossed the beach. Karl went into the boat shack and flipped a light switch, to no avail.

  “Goddam fuse has blown again,” Karl muttered angrily.

  Fishhooks, lures and flashers lay half-visible inside a glass-topped display case. A poster advertising last year’s King Coho Salmon Derby was tacked to a wall, along with Canada Fisheries Regulations and outdated Sports Illustrated calendars. Groping in semi-darkness, Karl brought out a pair of red, morocco-bound registers. One was for boat rentals. The other was the motel’s guest register, according to which Jane Colby had booked into room 101 about a month previously. This didn’t exactly square with the information I’d received from Fred Colby.

  Karl took a package of du Maurier from his pants pocket, put a squashed cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a chromium-plated lighter.

  I went outside. When Karl emerged from the boat shack I said, “Tell me about Jane.”

  Karl did not reply immediately. Gazing at the motor yacht, he said, “What’s to know? Janey’s a party girl, friend of the boss.”

  “A party girl?”

  Karl’s permanent sneer increas
ed, but he didn’t elaborate. I said, “Why do you keep those registers in a boat shack?”

  “There any reason I shouldn’t?” he shouted angrily. “There’s laws saying where we gotta store books as well?”

  Strongly tempted to strike Karl’s head with a blunt instrument, I said at length, “Temper, temper! Let’s have a look in room 101. You can lead the way.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Room 101 had a Do Not Disturb sign hanging from its doorknob. Karl used a master key, stepped aside and said, “Your move.”

  Room 101 was actually a hot and airless two-room suite scented with Airwick. I opened the blinds and a window. The suite’s kitchen area was an ugly chaotic pigsty. Unwashed utensils lay on countertops, or soaked in a sink of cold greasy water. A three-burner hotplate, coated with baked-on grease, had last been used to heat a nameless substance that had boiled over and left black stains on the stove’s white enamel surfaces. Empty wine bottles stood on coffee tables and a dresser. A Canadian Wildlife calendar pinned to the wall hadn’t been changed since January. Women’s clothing lay scattered on the floor and across an unmade bed.

  Karl, standing in the doorway behind me, cleared his throat.

  I turned to look at him. He wouldn’t meet my eyes; his manner had changed.

  I said, “Don’t tell me that you didn’t know about this mess.”

  “I mean, sometimes Janey was kind of noisy, but I never came in here,” he said, without his usual swagger. “Janey has kind of a special deal with the boss. She just comes and goes. Don’t pay no rent, so she don’t get no service.”

  Karl went to the window and flicked his half-smoked cigarette onto the beach.

  A hand-knitted sweater was draped across the back of a chair. Tacked to a wall, directly above the same chair, was a copy of the photograph I’d first seen at the house on Welling Terrace—the one of a smiling yellow-haired mother, standing on a tropical beach with a little copper-skinned daughter. I went over for a closer look.

  Karl said, “That’s Janey, and I guess her kid. Only Janey don’t look that way now. See her in the morning before her makeup’s on, she’s like death warmed over.”