Seaweed on Ice Page 5

  Richard Hendrix’s name reappeared in a story written for a west-coast weekly. His activities as a tree spiker were described and there was a photograph of the grinning, bearded activist driving a railroad spike into a tree. Asked if he ever worried his activities would injure innocent loggers and sawmill operators, he was quoted as saying, “Tree spiking discourages the rape of old-growth forest. If a few workers get hurt, that’s too bad. They’re cannon fodder in a big war. Sometimes people suffer, but that’s the price we pay for freedom. We’ve got to stop these timber companies before every forest on the coast has been clear-cut. I’ll use any means necessary to stop the destruction of public lands for corporate profit. Maybe we should be worrying more about disappearing wildlife, and less about disappearing lumberjacks.”

  The reporter then interviewed a couple of unnamed loggers. Both declared that if they came across Richard Hendrix vandalizing trees in their territory, there’d be a chainsaw massacre.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  A wintry sun reddened the southern sky and set fire to the banks of cumulus poised over the city as I walked back to my office. I was waiting to cross Pandora Street traffic when a large black sedan with tinted windows pulled up at the curb beside me. A uniform got out of the front passenger seat and opened the rear door.

  A deep voice boomed, “Get in.”

  I peered into the the car’s dim interior. The man who had just spoken was Chief Inspector Jack “Oatmeal” Savage. Sitting beside him was Detective Chief Inspector Bulloch. Savage leaned forward and pulled down a jump seat folded against the partition. I got into the car and sat facing them. The uniform returned to his seat in the front. I expected the car to start moving, but it stayed put.

  DCI Bulloch was a large, thickset man with a dull, impenetrable gaze and a nose that looked as if it had been flattened by a two-by-four in some prehistoric punch-up.

  “Having another busy day, Seaweed?” he barked.

  “About normal I would say, sir,” I returned politely.

  “Yeah, normal if you’re a retiree.” Bulloch stabbed a manicured finger at his wristwatch. “It’s nearly noon and you’re just showing up at your office?”

  “I’ve been busy with—”

  “Shut the hell up!” Bulloch yelled. “Did I ask you a question?”

  “Yes sir. You asked me if I was having …”

  “I said shut it! Are you deaf?”

  This time I kept quiet.

  “You’ve been screwing up again,” Bulloch said. “Dissing lawyers, insulting taxpayers. Just remind me, Seaweed. How old are you?”

  “Nearly 40, sir.”

  “Hear that?” Bulloch said to Savage. “Nearly 40.”

  “Is that right?” Savage said, with a glance at his watch. “Looks a lot older.”

  “I was an inspector at 30,” Bulloch said smugly.

  Savage shook his head and said, not unkindly, “What are we going to do with you, Silas? Sending you to charm school won’t work; you’re too old.”

  “Old dogs, new tricks,” Bulloch muttered.

  I looked at Savage and said, “Sorry, sir, I’m lost. Would you mind telling me where we’re going with this?”

  “You are going to march your sorry ass over to Mrs. Tranter’s house. Now. Render every possible assistance to that distressed taxpayer. Understand?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Savage leaned forward and rapped on the glass of the partition. The uniform appeared and opened the door again. There wasn’t enough headroom for an inside salute, so I backed out and saluted from the sidewalk as their car drew away. Evidently, Lofthouse packed more clout in this town than I’d realized. But orders are orders.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  When I reached Mrs. Tranter’s house, the Budget rental truck was parked outside again, but it departed when I pulled in behind it. The house was locked and seemingly unoccupied, although I noticed fresh muddy footprints on the path leading to the front door. I prowled around the veranda and tried to peer through the windows. Every curtain was tightly drawn. Somewhere, loose metal sheets slammed in the wind.

  Seen in daylight, Richard Hendrix’s shed was a decaying ruin, about 12 feet by 20, with board-and-batten siding and two inadequate four-pane windows. It appeared to be slowly sinking into the ground because of the untended grass and weeds growing up around it. A thick mat of moss and wet leaves covered its roof. The door was unlocked. I went in and walked right through a dense mesh of cobwebs strung across the opening. A rusty airtight wood stove stood in one corner of the shed, near an iron cot with a foam mattress. Well-stocked bookcases made of cement blocks and planks covered two walls. There was a two-ring Coleman camp stove on the table. A stained porcelain sink was fitted with a single cold-water faucet. An iron pipe suspended from the ceiling served as Hendrix’s coat rack. More clothing dangled from nails. Worn hiking boots and dirty sneakers lay untidily beside the door. The shed was damp, and it stank of mould and sweaty clothes.

  I left the door open to air the place out, collected an armful of alder logs from Hendrix’s woodpile and got a fire going in the stove. As the shed slowly warmed I foraged until I found a gasoline lantern—which I managed to light after a struggle—and put it on the table. The lantern’s fierce white radiance revealed more cobwebs, dust and decay. I took a book at random from a shelf. It was the Left Book edition of Orwell’s Road to Wigan Pier. The book was ruined by dampness, its pages frogged and almost unreadable.

  Outside, gusts of wind buffeted the trees, and branches made soft rustlings as they swept across the roof. I was glad to be indoors instead of pounding pavement. “Oatmeal” Savage or not, though, I wasn’t planning to spend more than a couple of hours interfering in Mrs. Tranter’s private affairs.

  Several pictures, which I didn’t notice until I lit the lamp, were pinned beneath a shelf. Some were newspaper clippings, others casual snaps. They had been taken at environmentalist rallies, logging-camp blockades and sit-ins outside British Columbia’s legislative buildings. Two pictures showed Hendrix standing beside WPC’s founder, Felicity Exeter. They made an incongruous pair. Both were in their late 30s, but Felicity was glamorous and beautiful while Hendrix was big and scruffy-looking, with a mop of curly black hair and a full beard.

  Suddenly, a car door slammed and an engine backfired like a machine gun. This was followed immediately by the sound of spinning tires as a car raced away. I hurried outside to see what was happening and found a large white envelope pinned to Mrs. Tranter’s front door. The enclosed note read:

  Seaweed: Sorry I can’t meet you, a case is running overtime at the courthouse. Please handle Hendrix yourself if I’m late and serve him with this notice. I’ll join you a.s.a.p.

  The signature was illegible, but it was obviously Lofthouse’s. The envelope also contained a sealed enclosure addressed to Richard Hendrix.

  I went back to the shed, left the door open and positioned myself where I could see Mrs. Tranter’s house. The stove was heating up the shed nicely. I must have dozed off for a while. I woke up when I heard another car slow down, stop briefly in front of the house, then drive off again.

  A hulking, bearded man came into view on the path at the side of the property. It was Hendrix.

  He was heading toward the front door until he noticed the smoke rising from his shed. His features darkened as he stormed toward me. He flung the shed door open wider still. I was wearing my uniform, but this didn’t impress him much; he looked hot enough to melt. Framed by the threshold, he barked, “Who are you? How did you get in here?”

  “Mr. Hendrix, I’m Sergeant Seaweed, Victoria Police Department. I’ve been waiting for you, sir.”

  Hendrix was about my height, maybe 20 pounds heavier. The extra weight was flab, not muscle, and he moved clumsily on splayed feet. In ragged jeans and muddy down-at-heel boots, he looked as dilapidated as the shed, but with his bushy beard and great size he seemed threatening. He wore a wide-brimmed black hat and an unbuttoned Australian bushman’s canvas overcoat.


  “I don’t care who you are. This is private property. Get the hell out!” he snarled, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

  I stood up, taking my time about it, then offered him Lofthouse’s letter. What happened next was insane. Enraged, and ignoring the letter, Hendrix lurched forward, drew back his right arm and threw a punch at my head. Hampered by his heavy coat, his movements were clumsy. I swayed sideways, and as Hendrix’s right arm swung past I grabbed his elbow and gave it a push in the direction it was already moving. That put him off balance, and he started to spin. He ended up behind me, so I stamped my heel down hard on his toes. He collapsed with a yell. I planted my foot on his neck, pinning him to the floor, and pretended to be cool, as if my pulse wasn’t pounding and shoving large men around was just habit with me. “We’re doing this all wrong. I came here to talk,” I said.

  “Jesus Christ,” he moaned. “I can’t breathe!”

  I took my foot away and he sat up, breathing heavily through his mouth. I dropped Lofthouse’s note beside him and said, “Better read that before you try anything else.”

  Hendrix glared up at me from beneath the brim of his cap, then grabbed the note, hauled himself to his feet and hobbled to the lamp. As the import of Lofthouse’s letter sank in, Hendrix’s bottom lip, thrust forward in an infantile pout, slowly tightened and his brows drew together. “You know about this?” he said, shaking the letter. “My aunt’s cut me off, told me to clear out.” He’d worked himself into another rage: his bloodshot eyes were unfocused and his lips had a white ring around them. “I’ll kill her, the bitch! All the things I’ve done for that ungrateful cow—I’ll kill her!”

  He staggered toward me and pointed a quivering finger. “Where’s my aunt? Where is she?”

  “It’s time you wised up,” I advised him. “Did something for yourself for a change, instead of being a full-time professional parasite.”

  “After I punch your head in!”

  “You must be a slow learner, Hendrix.”

  Hendrix drew back his fist, but this time thought better of swinging at me. “I’m not finished with you,” he said. “I’ve got your name, and I’m not gonna forget it.” He waved the note under my nose. “It says here I have to get my gear out and that I have to stay away from my aunt. You knew all about it, didn’t you?”

  “Grow up. I didn’t create this situation. You did.”

  Hendrix licked his lips. “You know what she did to me? You know she took me out of her will?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “That bitch! That four-eyed, dirty old bitch!” Words failed him. He groaned with impotent rage, fists clenched, and for a full minute just stood there staring forward sightlessly and mouthing incomprehensible threats and insults. The gist of it was that if he could get his hands around his aunt’s neck, he’d squeeze the life out of her and do the same for anyone who tried to stop him. At that moment, Hendrix meant every word.

  “Face it,” I said finally. “Your aunt is afraid of you. That’s why I’m here. Take my advice. Find a room somewhere else and take it easy. Tomorrow you might feel different about things. Given time, maybe you can patch things up with her.”

  Hendrix looked at the letter in his hand and slowly came out of his trance. “This lawyer guy,” he said. “He’s enclosed a cheque for a coupla hundred bucks. He says I get to keep the money if I renounce all claims against the estate.”

  I shrugged. Any quitclaim Hendrix signed under these circumstances would probably be overturned on appeal to the courts, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  Hendrix grinned craftily. “They’re trying to trick me, cheat me out of what’s rightfully mine. She’s my aunt, my own mother’s sister. I’m the only family she’s got. I got every right to inherit family money, and no smartass lawyer’s gonna screw me out of it.”

  “This has gone far enough. It’s time to move on,” I said. “My car’s outside. I’ll drive you downtown if you want”

  “Fuck you! I got my own ways of dealing with problems. Just tell me where I can get my hands on the bitch.”

  “Stop with the b.s., Hendrix. I’m tired of listening to it.”

  His face, half-shadow in the light of the lamp, was like a wooden mask. “What b.s.? I mean every word. Just watch me. Now get out of my way.”

  We stood face to face, six feet apart. “Find a friend, Richard,” I said firmly. “Talk and think things over. Your aunt may feel differently toward you in a couple of months. The world hasn’t come to an end.”

  “Nobody messes with me and gets away with it,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard me. He added darkly, “It’s been tried before.”

  I blocked his way for a moment, wondering whether to handcuff him and take him to the lockup. But I decided against it. Mrs. Tranter was safely out of the way.

  I stepped aside. Hendrix hobbled across the unkempt garden and was gone.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I waited in the shed for a while in case Hendrix returned, then called Lofthouse’s office on my cell. Grace Sleight told me her boss was in conference and couldn’t be disturbed.

  “Grace,” I said, “I’ve just spent an unhappy half-hour with Richard Hendrix. The guy is very upset about being kicked out of his house and cut from Mrs. Tranter’s will. You’d better disturb Sammy’s conference and warn him to keep Mrs. Tranter well hidden. Tell Sammy to keep his own head covered, too. Hendrix is acting crazy.”

  Grace gave a low moan. “Oh Lord. Sammy isn’t here. I think I just blew it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A man just phoned, asking for Sammy. Maybe it was Hendrix. He said he had important information that Sammy needed immediately.”

  “You told him where Sammy was?”

  “I did. It was stupid, but I told him,” she wailed unhappily. “You know Sammy. He works with rats and squealers. We get mysterious calls all the time.”

  “Where’s Sammy now?”

  “At the Red Barn Hotel with Mrs. Tranter. Room 311.”

  “Call your boss right now. Warn him that Hendrix might be headed his way. If it was Hendrix on the phone, there’ll be big trouble. Hurry, Grace!”

  I dashed to my car and raced down the rain-swept streets, gunning my little coupe through the yellow light at Hillside and Douglas. By the time I crossed Finlayson Street, red and blue lights were flashing in my rear-view mirror. A siren whooped as the police cruiser followed me into the Red Barn’s courtyard. I skidded to a stop outside the main entrance and left my car blocking the doors. Ignoring a doorman’s shouts, I headed inside. Startled patrons scattered as I raced through the lobby and took the stairs three at a time to the third floor. Somebody was chasing me now, yelling for me to stop.

  The door to room 311 was locked. I was hammering on it when a gasping hotel clerk caught up with me. I hammered the door again as the clerk grabbed my arm.

  “Sir! Sir! You can’t—” he began.

  “Emergency!” I shouted. “Open this door!”

  The clerk was trying to explain hotel policy when the stairwell door opened and a uniform appeared. It was Harry Biedel, a long-time constable I’d known for years. Biedel, who had not realized whose car he was tailing, was now trying to catch his breath. “What the hell’s going on, Silas?” he puffed.

  “No time to explain, Harry. We need this door open, now!”

  We were ready to smash down the door with our shoulders when the clerk hurriedly produced a master key and unlocked it.

  “After you, Silas,” Biedel said. “This better be good.”

  The room was a standard unit with a Formica dressing table and chest of drawers. The double bed was flanked by night tables with oversized lamps. Mrs. Tranter’s dark glasses lay on a coffee table. The TV was on—a black man rapping about sex and violence was competing with the sound of running water. A wet stain was growing on the carpet outside the bathroom door. I pushed inside and saw Mrs. Tranter, draped over the edge of the tub with her head partially submerged. One of her shoes was off and lay n
ear the sink. She had on the blue dress patterned with tropical flowers. The hem of a nylon undergarment showed. Instead of diminishing her, death somehow seemed to have increased her. She looked larger dead than she had alive.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  In the hotel courtyard, medics were placing Mrs. Tranter’s body in an ambulance. My little coupe was flanked by police cruisers. Harry Biedel and other uniforms were helping the hotel staff control traffic. Wide-eyed rubbernecks speculated among themselves.

  An identification team was dusting for fingerprints and making sketches in the room. Cameras clicked as photographs were taken from every possible angle. Dr. Flower, the duty medical officer, had pronounced Mrs. Tranter officially dead and was now typing notes into a laptop.

  CDI Bulloch was tied up at a social function in Saanich, but Bernie, in charge of the initial investigation, arrived promptly. He was unshaven, with dark circles under his eyes. When he saw me and realized that I had encroached on Bulloch’s turf again, he gave his head a pitying shake.

  In the victim’s handbag, detectives found an address book, a bottle of aspirin, a bottle of eye drops, a Pharmacare card and 15 dollars in cash.

  “Can you confirm that the dead woman is Mrs. Tranter?” Bernie asked.

  I hesitated. “I only saw her once, for a short time in a dark room, and she was wearing dark glasses.”

  Bernie and I watched from the window as the ambulance pulled away and headed for the morgue. I’d already described every detail of my encounter with Richard Hendrix once. Now Bernie asked me to do it again.