Seaweed on the Street Page 4

  “Corn dollies? Shaman? What the hell? … Here,” she said and held out her hand. “Let me have it.”

  I moved the effigy beyond her reach and shook my head. “Sorry, Miss Williams, touching it may not be a very good idea. Come with me, please.”

  I walked around to the back of the house and dropped the effigy into the garden incinerator, along with the pencil. Miss Williams and I watched them burst into flames.

  She said, “I hope you’ve got a good explanation for destroying my uncle’s property.”

  “It’s property that Mr. Hunt never knew he had. Believe me, your uncle wouldn’t thank the man who planted it on him.”

  “Perhaps so. But I want answers.”

  The rush effigy and the pencil had turned to ashes.

  I said, “How much time have you got?”

  “Oh, God. I do hope you’re not going to be tiresome,” she said wearily. “I’m really not ready to hear another litany of Native grievances, going back generations. I’m sorry that your ancestors were wiped out by smallpox. I’m sorry about the residential schools fiasco. I deplore the ancient theft and the modern clear-cutting of tribal lands, all right? Now just simply answer my question or I’ll phone your supervisor and have him explain it to me.”

  “I suggest you go into the house and get dressed. I’m not going anywhere just yet. We can take this matter up again later.”

  She turned on her heel without speaking and walked to the house. She’d impressed the hell out of me. Sarah Williams possessed in abundance that air of well-bred self-containment for which middle-class posers strive in vain.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Dr. Cunliffe was seated beneath a patio umbrella by the pool. He had a large vacuum flask of coffee beside him and seemed cheerfully indifferent to the many wasps buzzing around a tray of doughnuts. He pointed at the flask. I nodded and he poured me a cup.

  The sun was already hot enough to fry eggs, but the pool looked cool and inviting. Dr. Cunliffe guessed my thoughts and said hospitably, “If you feel like a swim, go ahead. You’ll find swimsuits and towels in that cabana over there.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass this time.” I tasted the coffee and said, “Mr. Hunt wants to involve me in a private search for Marcia Hunt.”

  “Yes, he told me. Is that within your mandate?”

  “Possibly. It might be a bit of a stretch, but on the other hand, nobody has fully defined the duties of a neighbourhood cop. I get dragged into all kinds of private mischief.”

  “Lucky you. But this is a waste of your time. Marcia’s dead.”

  “Mr. Hunt doesn’t think so.”

  “He does, but he won’t accept it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because I know Marcia. I knew her from infancy. As a little kid, Marcia was hell on wheels, but she’s a Hunt. That means she inherited a love for money and power. She would have been back here years ago if she were alive.”

  “Mr. Hunt didn’t say much that was really useful. He fell asleep after telling me about naughty Marcia’s tattoo.”

  “Calvert tells everybody. I think he was secretly proud of Marcia’s rebellious streak. It was a trait he thought she got from him. But Mrs. Hunt took the tattoo as a personal insult. Wanted me to remove it surgically against the girl’s will.” The thought made Dr. Cunliffe frown. “I refused, thank God, but I did worse things later. Things I’m ashamed of now.” He flapped his hands at the wasps and offered me doughnuts from the silver tray.

  Dr. Cunliffe said guardedly, “I don’t suppose anything was said about Marcia’s committal?”

  My mouth was full of chocolate doughnut. I shook my head.

  “Marcia was headstrong. If she got an idea into her head you couldn’t move it. From an early age she was just an unhappy little rich kid. She hated her boarding school but was forced to go. The Hunts never listened to her complaints. They expected her to do what she was told and keep quiet. Marcia detested most of the proper girls she had to associate with. Girls who were the daughters of Mrs. Hunt’s Junior League friends.” He grinned icily. “Marcia was the first person to shake Calvert’s absolute belief in the power of money. Until Marcia reached puberty, he thought money could buy anything.”

  I raised my shoulders an inch, thinking about that poor little rich kid, born with every advantage. A healthy, good-looking girl who spent her summers at a cottage by a lake and her winter vacations skiing, but who liked to hang around on street corners with people who had nothing.

  Dr. Cunliffe said, “When Marcia was little, Calvert gave her everything she wanted. Then she was suddenly 14 years old and they had a spoiled monster on their hands.”

  A cloud of starlings landed on one of the oak trees, their combined weight sagging a sturdy branch.

  Dr. Cuncliffe looked at the starlings and said, “At heart, Calvert is a roughneck. He was born poor. Calvert scrapped his way to the top. He battled with unions, governments, competitors. And he had virtually no schooling. For years, even after he became a billionaire, he’d go to his office in plaid shirts and caulk boots. Don’t get me wrong. Calvert is a clever, ingenious man. But he has no patience with theorists. I told him that Marcia needed psychotherapy but he laughed at the idea. If she’d been born a male, Calvert would have put her to work in one of his sawmills. Or she might have gone off to sea in one of his lumber freighters, knocked about a bit. Sowed the wild oats, then settled down. But Marcia was a girl and a girl’s options were limited back then. Instead of running off to sea she married a biker. A fellow called Frank Harkness.”

  “More fool her,” said a voice behind us.

  Charles Service had walked across the grass and arrived unheard.

  Service sat down and said, “As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Hunt found out, they did everything they could to have the marriage annulled.”

  The doctor nodded in reluctant agreement and said, “They tried, and failed. The courts wouldn’t intervene. The bottom line is that, while still a teenager, Marcia cleared off for several weeks. She came home with a motorcycle ruffian and introduced him as her husband.” He frowned and added, “Marcia was also pregnant.”

  Service shook his head, not in denial, but in reaction to the memory.

  Dr. Cuncliffe said, “That was the final straw for Mr. and Mrs. Hunt. After a family conference it was decided that Marcia’s pregnancy be terminated.”

  I said, “How did Marcia respond to that?”

  Dr. Cuncliffe’s eyes were bleak. He said, “Marcia wanted the child. When told she’d have to give it up, she was prostrated. Frantic with grief.”

  I tried to consider these facts without rancour and conceal my disgust. A Salish’s first priority is to take care of his family. To injure a relative is to violate the most sacred of tribal taboos. It is the kind of thing that witches do. I said, “The forced abortion. Was that legal?” I cocked an eye at both men in turn. The doctor watched the starlings. Service frowned.

  Cuncliffe answered first. “What we did was immoral and stupid. I’m ashamed of my part in it.”

  “Now look here … ” began Service, but the doctor interrupted.

  “We’ve gone through this a hundred times, Charles. We were wrong, there’s no getting around it.”

  Impatience rose in Service’s voice. “It’s easy to be wise after the event. Mrs. Hunt was raging. Half crazy with panic and anxiety. She wanted Marcia to marry into her own class. Frank Harkness belonged to a criminal gang. He had a police record, for God’s sake!”

  I said, “A record for what?”

  “He’d been arrested for trafficking and possession more than once. He could afford good lawyers, though, and kept getting off,” Service said. “He did serve three months for assault causing bodily harm.”

  Cuncliffe said quickly, “That sounds worse than it is. Harkness was a rough diamond, no question. The man Harkness assaulted was a pusher. Harkness smoked dope and probably sold it too, but the police were wise to him.”

  “What police? I’m a cop. I
never heard Frank Harkness’s name before today.”

  “Harkness was from up-island, Wellington. Not Victoria. Rode around on a big Harley Davidson, dressed in black leather and asking for trouble. The Mounties gave it to him.”

  “That’s baloney,” said Service. “You’re too lenient. Harkness wasn’t just messing around with a bit of marijuana. He owned a chemical factory. He was brewing speed by the gallon. Marcia was probably on it when she brought him to this house.”

  Dr. Cuncliffe said, “Let me tell you something, Silas. You can listen too, Charles, because it’s something you’ve never acknowledged. Calvert didn’t object to the marriage because Frank Harkness was a roughneck. It was because Harkness was a kindred spirit. He was a tough, hard-nosed man who wouldn’t bend his knee.”

  Service shrugged. “Maybe. You’re entitled to your opinion. But the main point is, Marcia went to bed with this biker, got pregnant, and they were married. False documents were used to procure the union. In my opinion, they were never legally joined.”

  Dr. Cuncliffe opened his mouth to argue the point, then thought better of it.

  I remembered something and said, “You spoke earlier, Doctor, about a committal?”

  Cuncliffe’s face hardened. “Yes,” he said, uncomfortably crossing and recrossing his legs. “We decided to have Marcia removed from circulation. Taken off the streets and away from Harkness. I arranged to have her committed to the mental hospital. The idea was to terminate the pregnancy and to wean Marcia off drugs while lawyers argued whether she was really married or not. It was a stupid idea and I’m ashamed of it. There was nothing wrong with Marcia, either mentally or physically, and we all knew that. She was just an unhappy young woman.”

  Service didn’t like that. His lower lip went under his teeth, and his chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing. “That is a medical opinion, it is not a medical fact. Two of your colleagues … ”

  “For God’s sake!” Dr. Cuncliffe exploded. “Let’s be honest!” He turned to me. “The medical fraternity is like the legal fraternity or a plumbers’ union. It’s a club for people with similar prejudices. I telephoned two of my colleagues, described Marcia’s history, her actions and her mental state, and I strongly suggested that she was certifiable. My colleagues agreed immediately and without reservation. Marcia was committed to hospital that same night.”

  I said, “Did that abortion go ahead as planned?”

  “No,” Service said. “There was no abortion because Marcia escaped. Nobody has seen or heard from her since.”

  “You’re forgetting this,” said Dr. Cuncliffe, reaching into a pocket. He handed me a postcard and added, “This arrived a few weeks after Marcia disappeared. I dug it out when I learned why you were coming here today.”

  The postcard was an advertising freebie. One side of the postcard showed a photograph of five musicians clustered around a seated pianist. A sign on the piano top identified the group as the RayBeams Orchestra. I turned the card over. It was addressed to Dr. Cuncliffe and had been mailed from Seattle. The message, written in faded blue ink, read: “Dear Doc, I’m feeling better now, resting up and thinking things over. Maybe I’ll see you in a couple of months.” The card was signed, “Marcia.”

  I said, “Let me get things straight. When Marcia came home with this biker, Frank Harkness, there was a family council consisting of you two and Marcia’s parents?”

  “The council also included Phyllis Williams, the late Mrs. Hunt’s twin sister,” Service explained. “Phyllis’s daughter, Sarah Williams, was swimming in the pool a few minutes ago.”

  I said, “Does Mr. Hunt have any other living relatives?”

  “He has no blood relations apart from Marcia,” said the lawyer. “Calvert Hunt is the only child of immigrant parents. Phyllis and Sarah Williams are Calvert’s only legal kin. They are of course related by marriage, not blood.”

  “Who will benefit from Mr. Hunt’s estate?”

  Service said reluctantly, “Most of it goes to a foundation. A sizable amount goes to the Williamses.”

  “How much is a sizable amount?” I asked. Service frowned at the question but said, “Phyllis will inherit about $50,000. Sarah gets a million, plus this house.”

  I said, “And if Marcia is found?”

  My question hung in the air.

  Service said, “Marcia left the family in bitterness and anger. The Hunts disinherited her to prevent Harkness from getting his hands on any Hunt money. If Marcia ever shows up, Mr. Hunt would probably change his will. As his lawyer, I’d certainly advise it.”

  I said, “But if Mr. Hunt dies tomorrow, Sarah Williams will be a rich woman?”

  “I’m rich already,” said an amused voice.

  It was Sarah Williams. I didn’t pay much attention to her clothes. They had probably been made by Chanel or some other Parisian haute couturier, but on the whole I’d liked it better when she was wearing her bikini. When she sat down and crossed her legs I could see almost as much as I wanted to see, and she knew it.

  The other men stood up politely. I stood up too, more slowly, because I hated to lose the view, even for 10 seconds.

  Service said awkwardly, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I had no idea you were listening.”

  “That’s all right, Charles. I broke in before you said anything naughty about me.” Still seated, she laughed and leaned toward him, puckering her lips to be kissed. Her eyes were closed and she had a dreamy expression.

  She broke away and extended her hand to me. “I’m Sarah Williams,” she said, acting as if we’d never met. “You must be Silas Seaweed, the mysterious detective.”

  “Mysterious?” I said. Sarah’s fingers were cool after her swim.

  “Well, it’s very hush-hush isn’t it?” she said, recrossing those long, beautiful, suntanned legs. She turned to Dr. Cuncliffe. “Be a pal, Harry. Pour me a coffee and pass those doughnuts. I’m famished.”

  “Calvert’s asked the sergeant to have one more look for Marcia,” said Service. “We don’t want everybody in town to know what’s going on, but we have no secrets from you.”

  “I’ll bet!” she said, arching her eyebrows and taking a doughnut from the tray. She took a bite and said to me, “I hope you do find Marcia. I’ve been hearing stories about her all my life. How bad she was and all that. I only met her once, when I was nine. We lived in Montreal then and the Calvert Hunts came east for a visit. Marcia was only a bit older than me, but she acted very grown-up. She got into trouble for wearing eyeshadow and lipstick against her mother’s wishes, but she looked very pretty too.” Sarah laughed. After taking a sip of coffee she added, “Poor Marcia, staying away all these years. Such a waste.”

  Sarah Williams’s arrival put an end to our conference. Small talk dragged on until Service tried to pour more coffee and discovered that the flask was empty. He said, “If anybody wants more, I’ll run into the kitchen and get this refilled.”

  “Forget it,” Sarah said hotly. “The servants are ready to mutiny because of that bloody creature Effie.”

  In a jittery voice Service said, “Don’t upset yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

  I rose to my feet and said, “Well, I’ll be going.”

  “Heavens,” Sarah said. “You’re not leaving this lovely company? Don’t you have things to talk to me about?”

  “Another time perhaps. If you don’t mind.”

  “Mind?” she said, looking into my eyes and giving me a smile I felt all the way down to my feet. “Why should I mind?”

  Dr. Cuncliffe said, “I’ll walk you to your car, Silas.”

  As the doctor and I strolled off, Service and Sarah put their heads together and began a whispered conversation.

  When we were out of earshot I said, “Somebody must have helped Marcia escape from that mental hospital. Was it you, Doctor?”

  Surprise made Cuncliffe’s eyes widen. “Yes. Conscience got the better of me. That postcard she sent me from Seattle was a thank-you note.” In a thoughtful voice he
added, “I suppose you know that Marcia was traced to Seattle by a private investigator?”

  “I know that Patrick Coulton was on the case for a while. I don’t know how much progress he made.”

  “What you also may not know is that hiring Coulton was Calvert’s idea. Mrs. Hunt knew nothing about it. Her cold-hearted attitude toward Marcia was pathological. The breakup with her daughter, when it came, was total. She was completely unforgiving. She went to her grave 10 years ago, still hating her own child.”

  We reached the doctor’s red Mercedes and he stood with his hand on the door. More things were troubling him, but he wasn’t ready to tell me what they were just then. He flung his medical bag onto the passenger seat and got in the driver’s seat. He looked like an old man, slumped forward over the steering wheel. He said, “Ever been married, Silas?”

  “Uh-huh. Once.”

  He stared past the rhododendrons. “There’s a lot of pious nonsense spoken about the blessings of family life. As a doctor I see its curses. I see lives wrecked by ignorance and pride.” He got into the car and waved toward the big house. “To Marcia, this place was a prison. Her parents were a couple of jailers.” He poked a skinny arm through the car’s window and we shook hands. The doctor’s skin felt dry, withered, but his grip was firm. He said suddenly, “That man, Jimmy Scow. Did he kill my son?”

  “No.”

  Dr. Cuncliffe released my hand. I watched him drive off, the back of his white head contrasting sharply with the Mercedes’ red leather upholstery.

  I got into my battered Chevy with its ripped leatherette seats and its stained roof lining. The car needed work. It needed new shock absorbers. The passenger seat was defective. Half the time the seat was stuck; the rest of the time it slid around without restraint. The last time my ex took a ride with me, she flew forward when I jammed the brake on suddenly and banged her nose against the dashboard. I needed a new car. I needed a lot of things. I felt a vague uneasiness. Half-captured ideas were struggling to be comprehended.