A Year Less a Day (20 page)

“It's a seance, not a witches' coven, Beattie,” scoffs Mavis. “You never have to take off clothes for a seance.”

“Really?” says Beattie, and Don Elliott turns scarlet as his wife gives him a dirty look.

“But we need an intriguing question,” enthuses Minnie, now back on Bliss's arm. “What's the mystery, Mr. Inspector, sir?”

Daphne has an idea as she relights the candles. “Get your picture out, David. Let's ask who Ruth's father is.”

“No ...” he laughs.

“Spoilsport,” says Minnie, patting his injured thigh, and he quickly gives in.

With the table cleared, and chairs set around, Bliss brings out the photograph and numbers the five living suspects, explaining, “One of these men may have fathered a child in Vancouver, Canada, in August 1964.”

“Oh, David. Such precision. Most men are so wishy-washy,” fawns Minnie squeezing into the seat next to him, but Daphne is on her back in a flash.

“You'd better sit over there, Minnie,” says Daphne, putting her next to the door. “We need someone frisky to pop up and down to put the lights out.”

“Are you quite sure we don't have to take off our clothes?” fusses Beattie, and Daphne retorts, “Yes. We're sure,” a touch heavy-handedly.

The lights go out, and the moonlight streaming through the window casts deep blue shadows. “This is spooky,” whines Blossom. “I'm scared of ghosts.”

“It's only a game,” snorts Daphne. “Now ... Everyone put your hands flat on the table, and no cheating.”

Mavis waits for a few seconds, until movement stills, then, feeling justified in taking the lead as it was her suggestion, she intones, “Is there anybody there? Is there anybody there?”

“What's supposed to happen?” whispers Beattie in the dark.

“In the movies, there's always a knocking sound,” says Don.

“Yes, but in the movies there's always a dead body when the light comes back on,” adds Minnie.

“Are you all right, Gino?” calls Bliss, suddenly fearful the shrivelled geriatric, who's hardly spoken all afternoon, may have passed over in the gloom.

“Yes,” replies Gino, and Bliss lets out a sigh of relief as Mavis shushes them before repeating. “Is there anybody there? Is there anybody there?”

“That was a knock,” exclaims Don. “I distinctly heard a knock.”

“Knock once for yes and twice for no,” intones Mavis. “Is anybody there?”

“One,” counts Daphne at the sound of a sharp tap. “Somebody is there.”

A slight movement in the shadows at the far end of the table catches Bliss eye, and he's deliberating
whether or not to speak up, when Beattie lets out an electrifying scream.

“Lights, lights,” yells Bliss, and as Don leaps out of his chair he collides with Minnie and they end up in a heap.

Daphne eventually hits the switch and all eyes are on Beattie as the lights come up. “There was a hand round my throat,” she shrieks. “My pearls ... My pearls have gone.”

“Minnie,” says Bliss, sternly and immediately. “Please give Beattie her pearls back.”

“Oh, David,” says Minnie, her voice dripping with admiration as she pulls herself up from the floor and takes a string of pearls from her purse. “You are a brilliant detective. How did you know it was me?”

“Why did you do that?” wails Beattie, snatching back her pearls.

“Minnie thought it would be fun to give me a real mystery to solve, didn't you?” says Bliss.

“Of course,” replies Minnie, smoothing Beattie down. “It was only a lark, dear. I wasn't going to keep them.”

“I wouldn't put it past her,” mutters Daphne, but Mavis is anxious to continue. “Quiet everybody. Put the lights out again, Minnie. Someone was calling from the other side.”

It takes a few seconds for the atmosphere to darken, then Mavis starts again. “Is there anybody there?”

A single sharp knock echoes eerily in the stillness and Bliss watches for movement, though he sees none.

“Have you passed over?” continues Mavis, solemnly.

Knock!

“Will you answer a question?”

Knock!

“I see five male faces in the photograph I am holding. Do you see them?”

Knock!

“Which face is the one that we seek?”

If a spirit has been summoned, it seems confused for a few seconds while the silence builds.

“Ask again,” whispers Minnie, and Mavis starts, “Do you see the face?”

“One,” counts Daphne under her breath, then the knocks continue. “Two, three, four, five.”

“Number five,” pronounces Minnie enthusiastically as she leaps up and switches the light on.

“Which one is that, David?” asks Daphne, squinting at the photo as the others crowd around.

“This one,” he says with his finger on a youngish man in the second row, and he consults the accompanying list. “His name's Geoffrey Sanderson apparently and, according to this, his present whereabouts are unknown.”

“I ... I um ... I'd better make some coffee,” stutters Daphne as she heads to the kitchen.

“Oh, Daphne. I meant to tell you,” calls Minnie in her wake, “young Jeremy Maxwell is back in town.”

“Jeremy Maxwell,” breathes Daphne, and she is stopped in the doorway by the news.

“Yeah. Didn't you know his parents quite well?” adds Minnie, and Mavis Longbottom furiously kicks her under the table.

“Oh, Mavis. Be careful, dear. You kicked me,” bitches Minnie. But the damage is done. Daphne is clearly flummoxed, and she hovers in the doorway while all eyes are on her. Bliss wants to help her out, but has no idea what's happening.

“Are you all right?” he asks, and Daphne unfreezes enough to stammer, “Yes ... Yes. I'm fine. And yes, Minnie, you are correct. I did know them.” Then she scuttles into the kitchen mumbling, “I'll make the coffee.”

“Why did you say that?” hisses Mavis with her sights firmly on Minnie.

“I don't know what you mean,” professes Minnie, though Bliss sees a hint of culpability on her face and slides into the kitchen.

“Can I help?” he asks, as Daphne busies herself with the percolator, then she turns questioningly. “Do you know what true love really is, David?”

“I think so.”

“I was sure at one time. Absolutely certain. So certain that I would have given my life ... But the price was too high in the end,” she says, then she slams around the kitchen with such aggravation that Bliss backs off.

“I'll ask who wants cream,” he mutters and leaves her taking out her frustration on the cupboard doors as she searches for the demerara.

The atmosphere has chilled to such a degree by the time Daphne returns with the coffee that most are searching for their coats and shoes. “That was a wonderful Christmas, thank you,” says Gino, taking everybody by surprise and, as the guests leave, Daphne is at the door hanging fiercely onto Bliss's arm as if fearing that he's about to be carried off.

“Can you believe that woman?” she snorts as Minnie trips away into the night. “She couldn't keep her hands off you for a minute, and she seventy-five if she's a day.”

“Never mind,” says Bliss, giving Daphne's hand a comforting squeeze.

Daphne quickly shuts the door as if hoping to keep out the ghosts of the night, but she can't shut out the ghost in her mind; the one that has been quiescent for many years; the one that has suddenly been re-awoken by the mention of Jeremy Maxwell, and she stands in the hallway with so many unanswered questions on her mind that she runs. “I think I'll go straight to bed,” she
says as she makes for the stairs. “It's been a long day and I like to get up early Boxing Morning for the hunt.”

“You hunt?” asks Bliss, though he has no great difficulty imagining Daphne riding to hounds.

“Of course not,” she protests. “I'm a sort of saboteur.”

Boxing Day morning dawns cold and dark for Trina as she stops for a coffee on her way to her first patient in Vancouver.

“I hate Boxing Day,” she'd moaned to Rick as she'd leaned out of bed and smacked off the alarm. “I always find at least one of my patients dead.”

“Don't go then,” he'd said, playfully pulling her back under the sheets, but she'd reluctantly struggled free.

“If I don't go today, I'll have three bodies to deal with tomorrow. Anyway, I promised them all turkey.”

“We could feed most of Vancouver with what we've got left,” he'd joked. “Take everybody turkey.”

Frost crystals dust the sidewalk like a skim of snow, and Trina's footsteps crunch in the stillness of the holiday morning as she makes for Donut Delight. Then a light on the street corner catches her eye and pulls her off course.

“Under new management,” declares the sign in the window of the Corner Coffee Shoppe, and Trina tentatively tests the door.

“Hi, Trina. I'm running the place now,” calls Cindy cheerfully, as the door opens into a new world. “Mrs. Jackson has put me in charge.”

“What about when Ruth comes back?” asks Trina, feeling somewhat traitorous as she enters the refurbished and re-carpeted café.

“After what she did?”

“Cindy. Ruth didn't do anything.”

“So, how come she took out life insurance on him, eh? And how come there was blood all over a carving knife? And what about the poison?”

“Who told you ...” begins Trina, but sees the answer as Jordan's mother emerges from the kitchen in an apron.

“What do you want?” snaps Gwenda Jackson, remembering Trina from her escapade in the dumpster.

“Just a herbal tea, I think,” starts Trina, turning up her nose at the cholesterol-filled cakes crammed into the cooler and the smell of frying bacon in the air. But Jordan's mother has other ideas.

“You wanna keep your nose out of other peoples' affairs lady,” she warns, then adds, “I don't want you in here spreading your lies about my boy. You're barred. Now get out.”

Trina's tears are not for herself as she leaves empty handed—they're for Ruth. The speed at which her ailing friend's authority has been usurped has her so wrapped up in rage that she walks blindly toward her car and doesn't immediately notice Tom, sneaking out of the shadows, until he's forced her into a corner.

“What do you want? I'll scream,” she shouts, not recognizing him in the pre-dawn gloom.

“It's OK,” he says, stepping closer. “Don't worry. Nothing's gonna happen.”

“It will if you come any nearer,” Trina warns as she readies a kick.

“OK,” says Tom slacking off a fraction, but he's got pressure at his back. Mort, the Brit from the porn studio, is at the wheel of his BMW, and watches through the deeply tinted windows from across the street.

“You know who I am, Trina,” continues Tom and she finally catches on.

“What do you want, Tom?”

“I just want a word about our friend Ruth,” he says, but the creepiness in his voice has Trina on edge.

“What about Ruth?”

Tom warily inches forward and darkens his tone. “My people have told me to tell you to just leave it alone, lady. That's all I'm saying.”

“I'm not bothered about you and your silly games, I'm just trying to find her husband.”

“He's taken off, and that's all there is to it.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

Tom shrugs. “If you know what's good for you, you'll just leave it.”

“Am I supposed to be scared?” Trina asks, close to laughing.

“Lady, this ain't no joke.”

“Are you smoking something, Tom? Isn't it time you grew up?”

“Just leave it alone and I'll get my people to back off.”

“Get stuffed,” she spits in his face then stalks off, scoffing over her shoulder. “Worms like you don't have people, Tom. People like you have worms.”

Trina has a busy morning, but her mind is distracted by Tom's warning as she cleans up the aftermath of her patients' Christmas excesses, although, thankfully, she has no bodies to pick up. It's mid-afternoon by the time Ruth gets a visit, and Trina is surprised to find Mike Phillips already there, sitting quietly by the bed. “My family are all back east in Ontario,” he explains, quickly releasing Ruth's hand. “I just thought I'd see if there was any improvement.”

“No change?” queries Trina, checking out Ruth's lifeless features and the array of equipment.

Phillips shakes his head sadly. “No. Although the chief has ordered an internal investigation, and Wilson's pulled the guard off the door.”

“I'm not sure that's such a good idea,” says Trina, and goes on to outline her early morning confrontation with Tom. “I just don't get it,” she confesses to Phillips. “Ruth's in debt up to her armpits, so he ought to be happy that I'm trying to get her freed.”

“I definitely shouldn't be telling you this,” says Mike, and swears Trina to silence before explaining. “I smelt him the first time I saw him. He's a bottom-feeding money launderer. I bet he doesn't want you, or anyone else, poking around in his cesspit in case we wonder where the stink's coming from.”

“I warned Ruth about him,” fumes Trina. “I told her he was dangerous.”

“He's slimy, but I'm not sure how dangerous he is. Although, I wouldn't say the same for the people he works for.”

“Who ...” starts Trina, then sees from the look on Phillips' face that she's not going to get an answer. “Never mind,” she says, then explains excitedly that she's had all the records checked and discovered that no registered health care worker had visited Jordan Jackson in the dingy apartment building within the past three months. “He's not in the system anywhere, and neither is that address—not for a Jackson anyway.”

“How did you find that out?” puzzles Phillips. “I thought health records were supposed to be confidential.”