Seaweed on Ice Read online

  Dr. Flower approached. “Got a minute, Bernie?” he asked.

  Bernie left my side and the two men exchanged a few quiet words. As the doctor turned to leave, I said, “By the way, Doc. Were DNA samples taken from Isaac Schwartz’s bedding?”

  “DNA, yes. We did collect some, actually,” Dr. Flower said. “It’s quite interesting. Somebody—two somebodies, in fact—had sex in that bed. Isaac Schwartz wasn’t one of them.”

  At this, Bernie’s mouth dropped open and stayed open for at least 10 seconds. Dr. Flower just smiled and went out.

  “Does Flower think Mrs. Tranter drowned in that tub?” I asked.

  “Possibly. There were signs of bruising around her neck. He thinks she was throttled first, then had her head shoved under the water. He’ll know for sure after the autopsy.”

  “So what do you think, Bernie?”

  “I think a person or persons unknown killed an elderly woman,” Bernie replied wearily.

  “I think it’s very peculiar that two elderly people have been murdered in the same week,” I said.

  That thought had already occurred to Bernie.

  “Another thing,” I continued. “I don’t understand why Sammy Lofthouse isn’t here. According to his secretary, Lofthouse arranged to meet Mrs. Tranter in this very room.”

  “Uh-huh,” Bernie mumbled.

  “Sammy might have arrived late, I suppose. Maybe he saw all the activity in the parking lot and decided to pass. Now he’ll probably be at home, trembling in his boots. Wondering where Richard Hendrix is.”

  “Wrong,” Bernie said. “Lofthouse is over at the morgue.”

  His words startled me. “You don’t mean …”

  “No, Silas, Lofthouse isn’t dead. I talked to him on the phone a little while ago, after you told me about your meeting with Hendrix. It seems that when Lofthouse left the courthouse today, he went to Bartholomew’s. Had a few drinks and consorted with fellow lawyers.”

  “You had me going, Bernie,” I said. “For a minute there, I thought Lofthouse was dead as well.”

  “The company he keeps, that could easily happen. Anyway, I told him to head for the morgue and wait for Tranter’s body to arrive. To be ready to identify it.”

  “Do you need me for anything else?” I asked. It had been a long day.

  Bernie sat down, leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Tell me something, Silas, ’cause it’s been bugging me. Remember when we were on the beach at Mowaht the other morning? What that guy Meyer told us? He said he and his boy saw an old Native messing around with Isaac’s body.”

  “That’s what he told us. And Bernie, sorry, it slipped my mind till now. The kid—Albert—told me he saw two people.”

  “Natives?”

  “Maybe. He thought a man and a woman. Maybe a man and a young boy.”

  “Exactly. This is my question for you. How did they carry Isaac’s body up to that cabin? You saw what conditions were like. They were terrible. It was all I could do to walk up that bank myself, and I wasn’t packing a dead body.”

  “That’s been bothering me too.”

  We were both silent for a minute, thinking about it. Then Bernie drew us back to the business at hand. “Come by the station tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll get your statement typed.”

  “Sure thing,” I said. I turned to go.

  “Hey, pal,” said Bernie.

  I stopped at the door, one hand on the knob.

  “My advice to you is, keep your house securely locked tonight,” Bernie said, with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “The hands that wrapped themselves around Mrs. Tranter’s neck are big enough to stretch around yours, too.”

  “His hands might be big enough,” I said, grinning back. “The question is, are his balls big enough?”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Instead of going straight home, I detoured to Mrs. Tranter’s neighbourhood and parked around the corner from her house. I entered her yard and stood motionless in the dark, thinking about the ghost wolf, dog or whatever it was I had encountered there before. This time, all was silent.

  I waited for a minute beside a cedar hedge, then slowly moved farther into the yard. Neglected fruit trees and tall shrubs provided plenty of cover. The dark bulk of Hendrix’s shed, and the adjacent outhouse and woodpile, was almost invisible in the night—a deeper shade of black in a dark, dripping world. Then I smelled something. Nearby, somebody was smoking—Virginia tobacco. After 30 seconds or so, a tiny golden glow briefly illuminated the face of a man as he inhaled deeply from a cigarette. He was standing under the eaves of the shed, less than 20 feet away. The cigarette fell to the ground and was tramped down by the man’s boot. Then the smoker moved away from the shelter of the eaves and walked slowly toward the house.

  It was a uniformed constable.

  Well, well. Bernie had had the place staked out in case Hendrix came back. Whether a noisy smoker would catch Hendrix napping was another matter.

  I waited for the constable to reach the house and step onto the veranda before I stole away home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I was finishing a morning workout on Moran’s heavy bag, leaning into it with my shoulder and gasping as I delivered short right-hand punches. Blinking perspiration from my eyes, I changed shoulders and punched with my left hand.

  Tony shook his head at my obvious fatigue. “Now you believe me, what I’ve been telling you? That jogging you do, it’s no good by itself. You gotta work on your upper body more.”

  Pushing my limits, I did a left-right combination that sent the bag swinging away and allowed my arms to fall. When the bag came back I sidestepped, but it grazed me going by.

  Tony grunted. “There you go. I’m looking at a has-been. A guy what can’t even duck a bag. Better stretch out on my table, champ—I’ll give you a rub down.”

  I held my arms out for Tony to unlace the 16-ounce gloves and said, “Any time I start feeling good about myself, I come here and get straightened out.”

  Tony smiled. He tied the laces together and hung the gloves on a wall hook, and I stretched out face down on the leather bench.

  “Okay, champ,” Tony said, pouring baby oil on my back. “What you want?”

  “I want a body like Arnold Schwarzenegger,” I said, smothering groans as Tony’s strong fingers dug into my neck and shoulders.

  “No you don’t,” Tony said with conviction. “What you want is Arnold’s brains. Or maybe his bank account. What you want is a body like Joe Louis, or Muhammad Ali. You ever watch those reruns on TV? The great fights?”

  “I saw Ali beat Foreman on a rerun a while back.”

  “Well, take a closer look at them guys’ bodies the next time. Check out them shoulders, abdomens. Them arm muscles. Compared to Arnold, good boxers got no definition at all—they’re almost flabby. But let me tell you, they’ve got more than straight power. What they got is staying power, the kind that carries a boxer for 15 rounds.”

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as Tony hammered my calf muscles. Then I heard Moran’s voice.

  “When Tony stops beating the tar outta you, Silas, I want to talk to you.”

  I opened one eye. Moran was already walking away in his wrinkled suit, chomping an unlit cigar. I tried to relax. Now Tony had started to squeeze the flesh along my spine between his thumb and forefinger.

  “What the hell are you doing to me, Tony?”

  “Getting rid of calcium deposits. You’ve got a lot of crystals building up; I can feel ’em in there.”

  “Are you trying to pop them through my skin, like orange pips?”

  “Just relax, Silas. Tell me how you’re doing on this Tranter murder, the one in the paper.”

  “I’m not officially involved. The detective squad’s taking care of it.”

  “Have they found the guy they’re looking for, that Henpix?”

  “Hendrix. His name is Richard Hendrix. And that reminds me: has Sammy Lofthouse been in here lately?”

  Tony’
s massage got even rougher when he heard Lofthouse’s name. “That sleazebag? I’m surprised Lofthouse has the nerve to show his face anywhere in this town. It’s about time somebody fixed that hustlin’ little prick.”

  “I thought he was one of your best customers.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What did Lofthouse ever do to you?”

  “To me, nothing. But he conned my nephew, Teddy. Conned him outta thousands,” Tony said, forgetting my massage as he vented his irritation. “Teddy’s my sister’s boy. He gets into a bit of mischief one time and hires Lofthouse. That bastard was no help at all. All he did was take a vacuum cleaner to Teddy’s bank account.”

  “How did he manage that?”

  “Lofthouse said he’d fix it. Talked Teddy into copping a plea, promised he’d get probation instead of jail. Cost Terry a bundle. I think he gave Lofthouse five thousand bucks. That was three years ago, and Teddy’s still breaking rocks at William Head.”

  I had to laugh. “Breaking rocks! Are you kidding? William Head’s a holiday camp. Club Fed for hoodlums. Waterfront views from every window. They’ve got tattoo parlours in there now. Instead of cells, murderers get private cabins with kitchens. If Teddy doesn’t like the Head, tell him to try Kent Prison.”

  I heard myself getting hostile—something Chief Alphonse was always warning me against—so I changed direction and said, “All this dough Lofthouse got from your nephew. How did the kid earn it? Flipping hamburgers at McDonald’s?”

  I rolled onto my back. The mirth came back into Tony’s face as he massaged my feet. Tony avoided the question. We both knew how Teddy had earned Lofthouse’s fee—hustling while out on bail.

  “Well, there you go,” I said.

  Tony was pulling individual toes now, wiggling them between his thumb and forefinger. He said, “This hurts, right? Hurts, but feels good at the same time. You know anything else works like that?”

  “Charity,” I said. “Giving money to Pastor McNaught so he can feed guys who sleep under bridges.”

  “Right. I see those bloodsucking evangelists on the tube Sundays and think I’m a sucker. But then I get to thinking about it some more and I feel better.”

  Tony finished my feet and slapped my stomach with the flat of his hand. “That’ll do you, champ,” he said. “Hit the showers.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  Moran was waiting for me at the poker table, drinking coffee and chomping that poor cigar as if he hated it. The old warhorse shoved a cardboard box across the table at me and said, “This is some more of Isaac’s stuff. I found it in a locker.”

  The box contained more old photographs and receipts, as well as a bundle of letters in yellowing envelopes, tied together with a red ribbon. I opened one envelope and pulled out the letter. It was written with a broad-nibbed pen, in German; the only thing I could decipher was the date: January 15, 1939.

  The photographs were mostly family snapshots, similar to the ones we’d found in Isaac’s room earlier. They showed stern-faced old men sitting in wicker garden chairs, glaring fiercely at the camera. There were also pictures of a little family—a man who might have been a young Isaac Schwartz with a wife and two small children. More recent pictures of the same people showed an additional child, being held in its mother’s arms. Moran sighed when he looked at it.

  In addition to photos, there was a 30-year-old BC Tel receipt, another from a dentist and a bundle of miscellaneous papers that included a 1967 bus pass. At the bottom of the box was a small notebook covered with spidery foreign handwriting and a fat envelope containing an illustrated auction catalogue.

  “It’s funny what people save,” Moran said.

  “I’ll pass this along to Bernie Tapp,” I told him.

  “Whatever.” Moran scowled at his reflection in the wall mirror beside the table. The old scrapper had scar tissue around both eyes—souvenirs of bad cut-men in long-forgotten prizefights. Moran turned away from the mirror and asked, “You coming to the poker game Friday? Usual time.”

  I pretended to be a hard sell. “I dunno about poker. I keep asking myself, is it sexy enough? Maybe I should take up dancing on Fridays for a change. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  Moran, thinking I was serious, gave me a look of incredulity, “No way. You started dancing?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “There’re regular Friday-night singles dances now.”

  “Dancing? At your age?”

  “What do you mean, my age? Besides, dancing is great exercise.”

  “Yeah, sure. Dancing and bowling and bingo, they’re all good for the heart,” Moran said. Disgusted, Moran went over to the electric percolator and poured more coffee, shaking his head and muttering beneath his breath. Over his shoulder he called, “What’s the big idea, taking all those samples?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Bernie Tapp and them were here this morning. Took spit samples—saliva—from me and Tony and the others.”

  “Don’t worry about it. They’re checking DNA to eliminate you guys as suspects, that’s all. It’s routine.”

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  After I’d showered I put my uniform back on, collected the box of Isaac’s belongings and, for no particular reason other than to take in the view, went up to stand on the roof of the building.

  Icy onshore winds were bringing more dark clouds in from the Pacific. To the west, the Sooke Hills descended in slow waves before disappearing under the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Twenty miles on, the same range of hills re-emerged from beneath the sea, rising up in steep, irregular chunks to create the Olympic Peninsula before finally sinking into the distant Pacific. Closer in, rooftops stretched in every direction. The tide was ebbing. A hundred yards from where I stood, the Gorge Waterway flowed into the Inner Harbour. Several fishboats and a small freighter were under refit at the Point Hope Shipyard. A fringe of white scum bubbled south along the Gorge’s muddy shore, where legitimate diggers busily excavated the archaeological site.

  I went downstairs to the street and walked to my office. I was letting myself inside when a car door slammed shut nearby. Something made me turn around. A woman had just exited a Land Rover. She moved with long, easy strides and got prettier with every step. She was tall, with streaky blonde hair, and wore an open Burberry raincoat that showed off a shapely figure beneath a turtleneck sweater and tartan skirt. “Sergeant Seaweed?” she smiled.

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been waiting for you. My name is Felicity Exeter.”

  “It’s cold. Let’s go inside my office,” I said. “After you.”

  I set Isaac’s box on my desk and asked, “Would you like coffee? There’s a diner next door; I can have some sent ’round.”

  She shook her head. “Lou’s place. I drank a cup there earlier, waiting for you.”

  “I’m glad you waited,” I said. “Please, have a seat.”

  Here she was, beautiful and rich, another mysterious door of opportunity opening up. She sat down across from my desk and crossed her legs. She smelled very nice. There were no rings on her fingers. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  Perhaps she could read my mind. The tip of her tongue touched her upper lip and the tiniest suggestion of a smile brightened her eyes as she composed her thoughts. “I’m involved with an environmental group, the Wilderness Preservation Committee,” she said. “You may have heard about us?”

  “The WPC, yes.”

  “Well, this type of group tends to attract its share of hotheads. People with views so extreme they’re really over the edge—too radical. Richard Hendrix falls into that category.”

  She stopped speaking and waited for my reaction. But being Coast Salish means I am patient by definition. It suited me to conceal my emotions and wait.

  “Well, Sergeant, do you have anything to say?”

  “I can confirm that Mr. Hendrix has a bad temper,” I said.

  “My—our—group doesn’t condone tree spiking, malicious damage to logging equipment or anything like
that. Even apart from the moral aspect, mindless sabotage alienates people who might otherwise support us. Richard can’t see that. He wants total war against all loggers—” She stopped in mid-sentence and laughed. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, sometimes I get carried away. Am I sounding preachy?”

  “Not seriously. But Hendrix is in a lot of trouble. We want to talk to him about a recent murder.”

  “I know,” she said calmly. “Richard and I read about it in today’s paper.”

  I listened without taking my eyes off her face.

  “I live on a farm in View Royal,” she explained. “There’s a barn on my property, a couple of other outbuildings and a guest cottage. The cottage isn’t visible from the main house, but yesterday morning before breakfast I went out to check on my sheep and noticed that the cottage curtains were drawn wide. I’d closed them myself a day or two earlier. The next thing I knew, Richard appeared.” She laughed nervously. “Seeing him gave me quite a shock. He came right over and admitted he’d spent the night there.”

  “Has Hendrix used your cottage before?”

  “No, but he’s been on my property several times. We often hold WPC meetings at my house, and occasionally he’s shown up.” Her face tightened and she moved restlessly. “I think he knows we don’t really want him, that some members don’t like him. But Richard seems quite friendless. There isn’t much else enlivening his existence, so we tolerate him as best we can.”

  Her gaze lighted on my desk calendar, and she stared at it as if it contained the answer to some mystery.

  “Technically, then, Hendrix was trespassing,” I said.

  “Trespassing?” she said, coming out of her trance. “That’s a bit harsh. I admit that when I first saw Richard I was annoyed and asked him to leave. Then I saw something was wrong. He looked different. Human. For a change he wasn’t posturing and showing off like he usually is. He was being genuine. I could tell he was frightened. I invited him into the house and gave him a cup of tea. That’s when he told me his story.”

  “Did he tell you if he killed his aunt?”

  “Richard insists he had nothing to do with it. He says he arrived at his aunt’s house after hitchhiking to Victoria from Tofino. It seems you were there, waiting for him. The two of you had an argument, and he left in a rage.” She hesitated. “Apparently, he beat you up first. Is that true?”