A Chill Rain in January (29 page)

“Lookee here,” she said, pointing to a bunch of flowers on the end of the counter.

“Very nice,” said Alberg. “Are they from your garden?” He hoped it wasn't her intention to try to put them in his office. Isabella frequently thought of things to do for him that he didn't want done.

“They're from Mavis Furley,” said Isabella.

Alberg looked at the flowers for edification.

“She got her car stolen,” said Isabella. “Remember? We found it for her. Corporal Sanducci found it. Abandoned on a logging road. None the worse for wear. Remember?”

“I remember,” said Alberg.

“This bouquet,” said Isabella, “is an expression of her gratitude.” She waited. “My lord,” she cried, exasperated, “hasn't anybody ever given you flowers before?”

Alberg stared at the flowers. He noticed a card, and took his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. He put on the glasses and read the message on the card. Nodding to himself, he put the card back. “Very nice,” he said, and leaned close to the flowers so he could sniff their fragrance. “Very nice.” He put his glasses away, gave the counter a brisk slap, and ambled down the hall, smiling at nothing.

The smile faded when he opened the door to his office. It was stifling in there, and upon his desk sat a pile of personnel forms that he'd managed to put out of his mind overnight.

He pulled up the venetian blinds and shoved the window open as wide as it would go. He left his office door open and sat behind his desk, staring gloomily at the paperwork that awaited him.

After a while he called Cassandra Mitchell and they arranged to meet later that day. When he hung up Alberg thought about Cassandra, about him and Cassandra, and wondered what that was, anyway—him-and-Cassandra.

His ex-wife was getting married, on the long weekend in August. In Calgary. To an accountant.

Alberg pulled out a desk drawer, rested his feet on it, put his hands behind his head and studied the photograph of his daughters that hung on the wall. It was time to take a new one. This one had to be at least six, seven years old. Diana was staying with him for the summer and in a couple of weeks her older sister, Janey, would be joining them for a few days. He could take their picture on a boat, maybe. But he didn't have a boat. He could rent one. Except they didn't like boats. They'd grown up in inland places and were distrustful of the ocean.

Alberg smoothed his hair, pulled in his gut, and tried not to let himself get depressed. It was so damned hot, though.

He ran his hands over his cheeks and jaw and considered quitting the Force and growing a beard. His hair was getting thin on top, he was pretty sure. It had some gray in it, too. But that wasn't noticeable, because his hair was blond. If he grew a beard, though, what color would it be? Blond? Gray? Or something else entirely? He kind of liked the idea that it would grow in a different color entirely.

Yeah, he thought; he'd buy a boat, grow a red beard and retire. He'd spend his days sailing up and down the coast; wearing his new beard, a seaman's hat and cutoffs. He'd be a character. People would write books about him.

“Knock knock,” said Sid Sokolowski, peering around Alberg's open door.

With an effort, Alberg managed not to drop his hands, put his feet on the floor and try to look busy. “Come in,” he said.

“How're you doing with the evaluations?” said the sergeant, maneuvering his considerable bulk into the office.

“Fine, fine,” said Alberg briskly. He pulled his glasses case out of his shirt pocket. “What're you up to today, Sid?” he asked, peering at the pile of forms on his desk.

“Couple of B and E's,” said the sergeant. “Otherwise it's pretty quiet.”

“It's the heat.” Alberg stood up, putting the glasses case back in his pocket. “I'm going into town, have a coffee, touch a few bases here and there.”

“Staff,” said Sid Sokolowski, but Alberg was already out the door, heading for the reception area.

“Staff,” said the sergeant, lumbering close at Alberg's heels.

“I'm going into town,” Alberg told Isabella, who was just hanging up the phone.

“You want to look after this?” she said, handing him a piece of paper on which she'd scribbled a message.

Alberg took it from her, held it at arm's length. “A ‘death threat'?”

“That's what the man said.”

“Here, Staff, I'll do it,” said Sokolowski, his hand outstretched. “You better get at those evaluations, eh?”

Alberg looked at him with dignity. “Of course, Sid. Of course I'll get at them. Just as soon as I've dealt with”—he peered again at the piece of paper—“with Mr. Ferguson's complaint.” He gave Sokolowski a beatific smile, and left.

A few minutes later, Alberg drove off a gravel road, parked next to a pair of nonfunctioning gas pumps and climbed out of his car. He slammed the door, fanning at the cloud of dust created by his arrival. His skin was sore. It felt thin and insufficient, as if the sun were weakening it.

Alberg thought about the RCMP volunteers who'd gone to Namibia. That kind of adventure, despite the heat of the African sun, would be good for a man, he thought. Therapeutic. He stood next to his car and looked around him. He felt the heat and listened to the grasshoppers, and he smelled the fragrance of dry grass—he might as well be in Africa, he thought, and wished passionately that he were. Adventure, that's what I need, he thought; I need an adventure.

There and then he decided to buy himself a sailboat. Right away. Right now. To hell with waiting until he retired.

He walked toward the house, thinking about his boat. He might get a Grampian 26. Or possibly a San Juan 24. There was a nice-looking CS 27 for sale at the Secret Cove marina. Or maybe he should have an Alberg 30, he thought, smiling to himself; he lifted his head and found himself staring through glass at a woman, who was holding a watering can and staring back at him. He stopped, confused, his mind for a moment not registering the fact that he was looking through an entire wall made of glass. Then he saw that the woman was standing among a vast array of plants. The place was a greenhouse, then.

A door slammed, and a man appeared from behind the building. He saw Alberg and shouted, “Get the hell off my property.”

Alberg pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “Are you Herman Ferguson?” he said.

“I'm the owner of this property, that's who I am,” said the man, waving his arms. “And I want you the hell off it.” He was about five eight and a hundred and seventy-five pounds, and he wore jeans, a sleeveless white undershirt, somewhat grimy, and suspenders. His feet were clad in hiking boots.

“I'm Staff Sergeant Alberg, Mr. Ferguson. From the RCM Police.”

The man stopped waving his arms. “Well how the hell's a person supposed to know that when you got no uniform on?” He added grumpily, “It's about damn time you got here. Yeah, Ferguson, that's me. Come around back here and see for yourself.”

Alberg glanced again at the greenhouse. The woman was bent over, watering a small tree. He saw that all the plants were in pots, although the floor of the building seemed to be dirt. Behind the woman, a child entered from a doorway, through which Alberg could see that the building wasn't a greenhouse after all. “Interesting house,” he said, but Ferguson had vanished. Just then he appeared again, around the corner, gesturing impatiently at Alberg.

The back of the house looked normal. There were a few windows, and two doors. The place stood in a clearing that was covered with brown grass. About fifty feet away the trees began, sweeping up the incline, foresting the mountain.

In the shade of the trees, near the house, was a small, windowless shed. Farther away but still in shade was a collection of wire pens, each about five feet square. In each pen was a pair of animals. Alberg didn't know much about animals. But a couple of them were foxes. And there were some raccoons, everybody knew what raccoons looked like. And in one of the pens, double-wired, so the chinks were smaller, there were a few squirrels. And Jesus, he thought, monkeys, too, little monkeys.

“Lookit this, just lookit this,” said Ferguson excitedly, and some spittle flew from his mouth. He gestured at the last pen, which was empty. Alberg looked. The wire had been cut, and the side of the pen pulled back. “I had two skunks in there,” said Ferguson.

Alberg nodded. He saw that the guy was missing a couple of teeth.

“Well what the hell are you gonna do about it?” said Ferguson.

“I'm confused,” said the staff sergeant. “I thought somebody here had gotten a death threat.”

“Me,” said Ferguson, banging his chest. “I got it. I got a death threat. Somebody did this here damage, and stole my skunks, and left me a note that threatens to kill me.”

“Have you got permits for these animals?” said Alberg, watching the monkeys.

“I gotta permit for every flamin' one of them,” said Ferguson.

Alberg sighed and wiped his forehead. He was being punished, he thought, for trying to avoid those evaluations.

“Where's the note?” he said.

“Inside,” said Ferguson, heading for the house. “I'm layin' a charge. Out of my way,” he said to the boy who pushed open the screen door just as Ferguson got to it. “This is the cops. I'm layin' a charge. Out of my way, boy.” The boy backed away into the house.

Alberg followed Ferguson through the door, across a hallway that stretched the length of the house, and into the kitchen, where the woman he'd seen through the glass wall stood with three children, looking at him curiously. “Hello,” he said, smiling at them. “My name's Karl Alberg.”

“I'm Annabelle,” said the woman. “This is Rose-Iris. And Camellia.” She glanced at the boy. “And Arnold,” she said, reaching out to rumple his hair.

“Get out there, boy,” said Herman to his son, “and give those critters some water.”

Arnold left, reluctantly.

Annabelle leaned against one of the kitchen counters and crossed her arms. Her face was shiny with sweat—it was no cooler in here than it was outside. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a thick braid. She was wearing a sundress, and no shoes. Her daughters moved close to her; she put an arm around each of them.

“Sit down,” she said to Alberg. “Would you like some iced tea?”

“This ain't no social call, Annabelle,” said her husband. “The man's here on police business.”

“I'd love some iced tea,” said Alberg gratefully, pulling out a kitchen chair. He and Ferguson sat down. “Okay. Tell me about it.” He glanced at Annabelle, who had put ice in a tall glass and was pouring tea from a glass pitcher she'd taken from the refrigerator.

“Okay, right,” said Herman. “I went out to water them. Started with the far cage, saw it right away. The cage was broke, and the death threat was stuck in the wire, like,” he said, jabbing at the air. He reached behind him and snatched something from the top of an old buffet that stood against the wall. “Here. Take a look at that.”

The envelope had Herman Ferguson's name on the front. It had been torn open. Alberg pulled out the sheet of paper inside. The message, like the name on the envelope, had been put together from words cut out of magazines and newspapers. It read: “A RIGHTEOUS MAN REGARDETH THE LIFE OF HIS BEAST; BUT THE TENDER MERCIES OF THE WICKED ARE CRUEL.”

Alberg looked dubiously at Ferguson. “You think this is a threat on your life?”

“You're damn right I do,” said Ferguson, with fervor. “And I know who left it there, too. You take this off and fingerprint it,” he said. “Then you take that old hag's prints, and they're gonna match up. You betcha.”

“Herman,” said Annabelle. She set a glass down in front of Alberg. “You can't go around slandering people like that,” she said. She went back to the counter, held out her arms, looking at Alberg, and drew her daughters near.

“You shut up, there,” said Herman, his face turning red. He was straddling one of the kitchen chairs, clutching its back; the heel of his boot tapped the linoleum rapidly, in a nervous tic. “It's her, all right. It's that bloody woman that did it,” he said to Alberg.

Alberg asked Annabelle for a plastic bag, into which he carefully slid the note and its envelope. Herman watched him, mollified. “Who are you talking about?” said Alberg.

“That crazy old hag with all the cats,” said Herman. “She's the one. She'll do more, too, if she's not locked up.”

“Herman,” said Annabelle. She laughed.

“Shut up,” Herman yelled. “I told you. Just shut up.”

“Hey, hey,” said Alberg mildly. “Take it easy.” He lifted his glass and took a long drink. “It's good,” he said, with a nod to Annabelle. Then he turned to Herman, who was muttering to himself, his heel still tapping the floor. “What's this woman's name?”

“I don't know what the hell her name is,” said Herman. “People like that, what the hell difference is it what their name is? She's crazy. A crazy person. Pedals around town on that damn bike, talkin' to herself. It's a disgrace, to the whole damn town.”