Seaweed on Ice Read online

  “Forget it.”

  Outside the cabin, Bernie stretched out the kinks that stooping in the cabin had put in his back. “Meyer said he’d seen a Native guy, dressed funny. Couldn’t have been one of your bog apparitions, could it?”

  “How about this for a theory?” I said. “Somebody murdered Isaac in his room last night and hauled his body down the gymnasium’s stairs. I could see the marks left on Moran’s floors. One heel was torn off. Isaac was brought here and dumped into Mowaht Sound. His body was in the water long enough to be found by crabs before it washed ashore.”

  “Sounds possible,” Bernie admitted, “but how does a Native guy fit into this?”

  The moon was faintly visible in the daylight sky. I pointed to it and said, “On Native calendars, that’s called Snow-Coming Moon. It’s the time of year when spirits finish travelling around the world and return to their masters. It’s the time of year when qualified Coast Salish youngsters go out into the world in search of personal spirits.”

  Bernie’s expression was unreadable.

  “During Spirit Quest,” I went on, “searchers dress traditionally and are forbidden to eat. It’s quite common, even normal, for spirit questers to become delirious. It’s just possible that a spirit quester came across Isaac’s body by accident. If he was delirious he might have heard voices telling him to move it.”

  Bernie used his cellphone to call headquarters and request that a canine unit and a forensic identification team be brought out. We traipsed back to the beach without speaking. The Meyers were waiting for us. White plastic bleach bottles bobbed up and down in the waves without drifting.

  “Are those your crab buoys?” I asked Meyer.

  He gave me a blank look. “What?”

  “You were checking those crab traps when you found the dead man, I suppose?”

  “Me, crabbing?” Meyer retorted indignantly. “No chance. Crabbing’s illegal unless you’ve got a licence.”

  Bernie was sitting on a rock. He had taken his shoes off and was wringing water out of his socks. His feet were blue with cold.

  I turned away and wandered along the beach to the north, looking at herons, mallards and buffleheads, but thinking about my ancestors and the places to which—if you believe Coast Salish stories—the souls of our ancestors sometimes return. I heard footsteps slopping along behind me. It was young Albert Meyer. I said hello, but instead of replying he stared down at his feet. “You can stop worrying,” I said. “I’m not with Fisheries. I won’t be reporting you and your dad for crabbing.”

  Albert raised his eyes as high as my chest. “It’s not that, it’s just …”

  “What?”

  “My dad. I guess his eyes ain’t so good,” he said, breaking off.

  Albert was the kind of kid directors want for movies like Angela’s Ashes. Poverty, misery and cruelty were corroding his soul and sapping whatever pluck he’d been born with, but he still retained a vestige of unconquered spirit. “My dad told you there was only one person messing with the dead person, but he was wrong,” Albert said, glancing back nervously for fear of being overheard. “There were two people there. One was kind of tall. Tall as you are. The other was small—a young guy, or a girl maybe. I only spotted them for a second or two.”

  “Another Native?”

  “I dunno. Like I said, I didn’t get a good look.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Okay, this is a great help.”

  “You won’t say anything to my dad, will you?” Albert went on. “It’s just … sometimes he gets mad at me.”

  I was still thinking about father–son relationships an hour later when I heard helicopter blades slicing the air. This time it was a twin-rotor Buffalo. Faces peered out its windows as it descended noisily to the beach. Forensics had arrived, along with two German shepherd dogs. Once disembarked, they floundered across the mud to receive Bernie’s instructions.

  Before turning his attention to them, Bernie cast a sidelong look at me and said, “Bog apparitions, spirit questers and a Salish chief who died a long time ago. Silas, this case is right up your alley.”

  I nodded.

  “Right,” he said. “Let’s keep each other posted.”

  With that, he led the bunny-suited forensics gang toward the cabin, briefing them as they went.

  I flew back to Victoria in the police chopper.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sammy Lofthouse showed up at my office about five o’clock that afternoon, chomping the usual unlit cigar. He collapsed into a chair. Snowflakes, melting on his black overcoat, dripped onto the linoleum.

  “Jesus, Seaweed,” Lofthouse complained. “Swans’ parking lot is jammed. I had to park three blocks away.”

  “That’s what you need. Exercise. Stay away from steak houses. Spend more time working out, it’ll strengthen your heart.”

  “What are you?” he snarled. “My medical adviser?”

  He looked exhausted and tense. A network of fine wrinkles ringed his eyes. I opened a drawer and brought out two plastic cups and a bottle of Seagram’s VO that I’d confiscated from an underage mall rat. I poured two fingers into each cup and slid one across the desk to Lofthouse, who emptied it in one draught.

  “Hit me with some more of that,” he said. “I’m a thirsty guy.”

  “Having a rough day?”

  “Please, ” he said. “Just fucking pour me another.”

  I topped him up and settled back in my chair.

  Lofthouse produced a gold Zippo. Ignoring the No Smoking sign pasted beside my door, he lit a cigar, breathed smoke over me and settled down to pant. He was wearing a signet ring set with a chunk of ice big enough to cool a jug of lemonade. While I admired his jewellery, he scowled at Queen Victoria, who was frowning down at him from her picture frame.

  Lofthouse looked and sounded more like a hoodlum than a successful lawyer. He shaved twice a week and liked to socialize with tough guys, speak their language. His clients were hard-core criminal losers. Lofthouse had tangled with the Law Society more than once because of his unethical practices.

  On the street outside, angry drivers were honking car horns. I got up and looked out the window. The Johnson Street bridge had been raised to let a tugboat pass from Point Hope to Victoria’s Inner Harbour. Road traffic to and from Vic West was temporarily stalled.

  Lofthouse wagged a finger. “You’re listening to the death rattle of civilization. One of these days, there’ll be a traffic snarl that can’t be fixed. It’ll be bumper-to-bumper from coast to coast. People will die in their cars.”

  He was waiting for me to speak, but I rolled Seagrams around my tongue and kept quiet.

  Finally he came out with it. “I need you to help me with something.”

  “That’s what I figured.”

  “One of my clients needs protection. Old woman named Mavis Tranter. Mrs. Tranter’s nephew is about to be disinherited and kicked off her property. The guy’s a nut and could be dangerous.”

  Lofthouse’s cigar had gone out. He produced the Zippo again. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “When I’ve got my breath back, we’ll go meet her.”

  I scowled to let him know his words were beginning to annoy me. “Sounds serious. You’d better clear it with my boss.”

  “That’d be Chief Inspector Bulloch?”

  “Not anymore. Oatmeal Savage owns my ass now.”

  “At least it’s not Bulloch. Jesus. Any other organization, Bulloch’s the guy they’d send out for coffee.” Lofthouse moderated his tone and added, “I want you to defuse a threatening situation. Is that asking too much?”

  “Probably.”

  Lofthouse blew smoke at the ceiling and said, “Mrs. Tranter asked me to prepare a new will—”

  “Hold it a minute,” I interrupted. “Tell me about the guy who roughed you up this morning.”

  “Who said somebody roughed me up?”

  I looked him in the eye. He blinked as if a wind had just blown sand into his face. “Okay. The guy’s called Lennie
. Lennie Jim, a half-baked hick who thinks I owe him something.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m Lennie’s lawyer,” Lofthouse said. “He’s a head case, a complete fucking yo-yo, been in and out of the joint since juvie hall. He pulled a convenience-store heist a while back. The whole episode was captured on video. The dumb fucker wasn’t even wearing a mask, so what could I do? Lennie’s sore at me because he was sent down.”

  Lofthouse inserted a pinky into his ear and twirled it around while he sulked. “Forget Lennie. That was just a business thing. Can we talk about Mrs. Tranter?”

  “I’d like to know some more about Lennie first.”

  “Please, you’re wasting your time. In a year, maybe less, Lennie will be phoning me from the city lockup. I should have a hundred clients like him. They’re worth a coupla large a year to me, each one of ’em.”

  “What’s a large?”

  “A thousand bucks. Christ, don’t you watch The Sopranos on TV?”

  “No. I get all the fantasy I can handle listening to guys like you.”

  Lofthouse relaxed and started to laugh.

  “All right,” I said. “Tell me about Mrs. Tranter.”

  “Mrs. Tranter has no kin except for one nephew, Richard Hendrix. Originally, Hendrix was Mrs. Tranter’s sole beneficiary. Now she wants a new will. She’s cutting him off without a nickel.”

  “So what? It’s her money, she can do what she wants.”

  “But what makes this interesting is that Mrs. Tranter’s new beneficiary is somebody she just met. A stranger.”

  Something else occurred to me. “You specialize in criminal law,” I said. “Isn’t estate work outside your line?”

  “I’m a lawyer,” he snapped. “If there’s a buck in it, I’ll do it.”

  Then he remembered his manners. With a shrug he added, “But you’re right, it’s not my usual gig. Anyway, Mrs. Tranter phoned me. Said I’d been recommended. I’m curious, so I make an appointment, go see her. She lives in an old house off Bay Street. The house is a dump, but it’s sitting on a nice big chunk of subdivisible land.”

  “You said Mrs. Tranter wants a new will. Who prepared the old one?”

  “Derek Battle.”

  Derek Battle was the senior partner in a prestigious, long-established firm. Lofthouse must have guessed my thoughts, because he added, “You’re wondering why she didn’t ask Battle to make the changes? Simple. She thinks Battle might try to influence her.”

  “And should he?”

  “Hey, Seaweed!” said Lofthouse irritably. “What Battle would or wouldn’t do is irrelevant. We’re talking about my client’s perceptions.”

  “Is Mrs. Tranter mentally competent?”

  “She’s nearly blind, a recluse. But she’s still sharp, got all her marbles. As you said, it’s her will, she can do what she wants. Just the same, it’s a screwy deal. “ Lofthouse paused. He frowned, flexed his long arms, inspected his cigar and added soberly, “Let me tell you something. People make weird wills all the time. They leave their money to cats and fucking canaries. Compared to some I’ve seen, Mrs. Tranter’s will is sane and reasonable.”

  “Have you spoken to Derek Battle about this?” I asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Tell me about the nephew then. Richard Hendrix.”

  “Another fucking yo-yo. He’s been living in a shed on Mrs. Tranter’s property. The old woman was pretty generous with him till he got hold of her chequebook and started dipping into her account. She didn’t notice anything amiss at first, being blind and all. By the time she realized what was going on, Hendrix had stolen thousands.”

  The recitation of these perfidies brought Lofthouse’s simmering temper to the boil again. “Hendrix is an eco-freak,” he added sharply. “He spends his time hugging trees and protecting owls, when he isn’t sponging off his aunt.”

  “That’s irrelevant. Nice people hug trees and love owls.”

  Lofthouse opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it and made a visible effort to relax. “Richard Hendrix does more than hug trees,” he said. “He specializes in tree spiking—driving long steel nails into old-growth timber. If a logger’s power saw happens to touch a spike, his cutting chain can break and rip somebody’s head off. Hendrix is a menace.”

  “So who’s Mrs. Tranter’s new beneficiary?”

  “Her name is Ellen Lemieux. As I said, Mrs. Tranter is legally blind—she can actually see a little bit using special glasses. She has photophobia, a disease that makes it hard for her to tolerate light. Anyway, she was out shopping one day. This girl, Ellen Lemieux, notices the old lady stranded at a crosswalk and helps her across the road. Then helps her shop for groceries. One thing leads to another. Mrs. Tranter’s grateful. She invites Miss Lemieux around for coffee. The two women become friendly. In the meantime, Mrs. Tranter is having problems with her nephew.”

  “Apart from stealing, what else does Hendrix do?”

  “Not much. He’s never held a regular job, been sponging off people for years. Hasn’t even got the moxie to cut the grass or help around the house. Mrs. Tranter is just sick of him. One day she woke up and realized that she didn’t want her money to support him when she was gone. Then Miss Lemieux came into the picture.”

  “Tranter’s estate. How much money are we talking?”

  “She has a few thousand in the bank and a small pension that dies with her. Her big asset is all that real estate.”

  “How is Miss Lemieux reacting to this windfall?”

  Lofthouse smiled. “This is the interesting bit. Ellen, Miss Lemieux, has no idea what’s going on. She’s going to be one very surprised young woman when Mrs. Tranter dies.”

  That was interesting. “What’s my part in all this?”

  “Tranter sent Hendrix a letter telling him she’d found out he’d been writing cheques on her account. She told him to stay away from her and from her property. She also let him know that he was disinherited.”

  “Was that wise?”

  “No. Richard Hendrix is gonna be mad as hell. I expect fireworks. My idea is to head off problems before they begin. I could hire a security cop, but Hendrix’s kind of a tough monkey. I think we need a real cop.” Lofthouse smirked. “You may have to lean on Hendrix a bit, big fella. But hey, you’re good at that.”

  I thought it over. This matter was taking place inside my bailiwick and had potential for criminal violence. Violence is the sort of thing neighbourhood cops are supposed to forestall. I picked up the two empty plastic cups, carried them to the bathroom and washed them in the sink, then put them back in my drawer along with what was left of the whisky. Sitting down again, I said, “Have you met Ellen Lemieux?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah. Accidentally on purpose, if you know what I mean. She works at a farmers’ market. I went there one day just to have a look at her. Pretty cute. I didn’t speak to her, obviously.”

  “Okay, spell it out. Just what exactly do you expect me to do?”

  “Come with me and you’ll find out,” he said, standing up and bustling toward the door but stealing a look from the corner of his eye to see that I was following.

  I was pretty sure I was letting myself in for something I’d regret, but my curiosity was aroused. I was just locking the office door when my phone started ringing. Lofthouse was already outside. “Hang on a minute,” I called.

  Lofthouse had an agenda and was sticking to it like a gecko sticks to a ceiling. “Forget the goddam phone, Seaweed,” he said. “Let’s go!”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Mavis Tranter’s property was surrounded by dilapidated picket fences and overgrown laurel hedges. Fifty years ago, people had been proud to live in this part of Victoria. Now the area was zoned industrial and was a wasteland of rundown houses, car-wreckers’ yards, scrap merchants, machine shops and bottle depots. Street lights were few.

  Lofthouse nosed his Cadillac up to the curb behind a Budget rental truck. The earlier snow had turned to freezing rain,
and we dashed to Mrs. Tranter’s front veranda.

  The house had a stone foundation, but the encircling veranda was barely supported by decaying wooden posts. It was obvious that the house had been beautiful once, with elaborate brick chimneys and a steep slate roof. Half visible in the gloom were wide bracketed eaves and little balconies flanking stained-glass windows. The grounds were as neglected as the house. Clumps of rank grass stretched between untended fruit trees and shrubs.

  Lofthouse twisted a bell switch beside the front door. Tinny peals echoed inside the house. After a minute the door opened. Mavis Tranter was barely visible in the unlighted vestibule. She was a stooped, tiny old woman wearing a fur coat buttoned up to her neck, and she moved with a shuffling, stiff-kneed, heel-dragging gait. Her fluffy white hair contrasted sharply with the dark lenses of her eyeglasses. She said without ceremony, “Come in, but mind your feet. You’ll find it rather dark. My eyes cannot tolerate much light.” She pointed with her white cane to a hat rack and added assertively, “Hang your things there.”

  We did as we were told, then followed her down a dim corridor to a shadowy living room as grim as a Dickens orphanage. A small electric table lamp with a one-candlepower light bulb glowed dimly on a sideboard. The dying embers of a log fire cast negligible beams from the fireplace. Mrs. Tranter sat down in an armchair and motioned for us to sit too. Her own chair was positioned to the side of the fire, where she could enjoy its feeble warmth without having to look at it. The half-panelled room was cluttered with old—and what I then incorrectly judged to be valuable—oak furniture. Bookcases covered one entire wall but contained few books except Agatha Christie mysteries and similarly dated paperbacks. On one wall hung a small Turkish rug; on another, a dark and hideous painting of a ruined monastery.

  Mrs. Tranter shook her white head and appraised us from behind her dark glasses. “Excuse the condition of the house,” she said. “I have few visitors.”

  She spoke carefully enunciated English. I noticed that beneath her fur coat she was wearing a blue cotton dress printed with tropical flowers.

  Lofthouse said, “Mrs. Tranter, this is Sergeant Seaweed of the Victoria police.”