A Year Less a Day (42 page)

“And he'd bump 'em off.”

Maxwell shrugs. “When do I get my lawyer?”

“We know what you were doing Jeremy,” carries on Phillips as if he hasn't heard. “Your friend who runs the crematorium tells us that you've kept him pretty busy for years.”

“You can't pin that on me. It was Waghorn, the perv. He'd get carried away—string 'em up too tight, get a bit rough, pump 'em full of dope, smack 'em around a bit too hard. I mean, they were all scrubbers and druggies. They were used to it. It's a rough trade.”

“They weren't used to dying, though.”

“Hey. Happens—know what I mean?”

“So, when it happened, you and your boys would clean up his mess?”

“Prove it.”

“We will. So, why did Waghorn leave the country?”

“The heat was on.”

“So you sold him your cousin's ID.”

“So what? Snitchy f'kin Jordan didn't need it.”

“He certainly doesn't now,” admits Phillips.

“Back to the hospital with you,” says Bliss as he helps Daphne into a police car.

“Not bloody likely,” she replies haughtily. “There's nothing wrong with me that a good drop of vintage brandy won't cure. Come on, David. Take me back to the manor. I know where he keeps his stash.”

“Daphne—you can't do that. It's theft,” he says, as he jumps in beside her.

“Are you joking, David? After what he did to me?”

Superintendent Donaldson greets them outside the stables as he turns a small corner of broken plywood over in his hands.

“How did you know it was drugs?” Donaldson inquires of Daphne as they drive up.

“Elementary, my dear Superintendent,” replies Daphne, in a Holmesian tone. “It was the way that they unloaded it that got me thinking. All the stacks from the back of the container were taken to that old barn over there, where nothing was happening, but all the others went into the barn that had been renovated. ‘Why are they different?' I asked myself, ‘They look the same.'”

“Because they have a different filling in the middle
of the sandwich,” says Donaldson as he splits apart the layers.

“Precisely, Superintendent. A thin sheet of highly compressed grass—I think that's what it's called today—between cedar veneers.”

“And you could smell it?” Donaldson queries in surprise.

“No,” laughs Daphne. “All I could smell was the cedar and the glue, but I knew he was up to no good and called his bluff.”

“I still don't know why you didn't trust him.”

“If you must know, Superintendent, I simply could-n't see any man with an appreciation for wood throwing a can of the most expensive wax polish into the rubbish bin.”

“Daphne Lovelace, you are a genius,” says Bliss, though he is still puzzled over how she had gotten into the estate.

“I'll show you,” she says, starting to rise. Then she gives him a scowl as he puts out his hand to help. “I can manage, David.”

A sea of white wood-anemones scattered with little bouquets of sunny primroses and vibrant splashes of violets greet the three of them as they make their way into the copse behind the ruins of the old manor.

“We used to play here before the war,” says Daphne, as she leads them along an overgrown path for a few hundred feet. Then she stops. “See anything?” But neither Donaldson nor Bliss catches on.

“Over there,” she points with a nod to a low grassy hillock, but it is only when they are right on top of it that they see and old wooden door set deep into the side of the mound.

“It's a tunnel,” says Daphne, pulling her flashlight out of her old canvas bag; seconds later they are inside
a limestone cavern last used as a D-Day ammunition dump in World War II. “It comes out in the basement of the old church,” she explains, her voice echoing as she ushers them through the long, narrow gallery. “It was pretty scary coming in here after all those years, but at least I didn't have to worry about East German border guards popping up and blowing my head off.”

“Waghorn nearly did, though,” Bliss reminds her, and she stops to upbraid him with a reproachful look. “You should have listened to me, David. I told you something wasn't right about him.”

It's almost a year since Jordan Jackson went home knowing that he was about to rip out his wife's heart with his tale of woe, but he could never have imagined that all he might do was cut out those parts that were rotten. Under the tutelage of Trina Button, and the kindness of others, Ruth Crowfoot is now a trendy thirty-something who has spent her summer days feeding the ducks in Stanley Park, and the evenings and nights feeding her lover.

Mike Phillips has won a permanent transfer to Canada's Pacific coast, and, across the Atlantic in London, David Bliss is back at work, his leg fully healed, when Daphne Lovelace phones.

“Did you get one as well, David?” she wants to know, and Bliss catches on immediately.

“I guess you mean the wedding invitation—yes. Are you going?”

“Naturally. September in Vancouver sounds wonderful. You are coming, aren't you?”

“Well, I'm fairly busy ...” teases Bliss, then he relents. “Yes. Of course I am. Mike's asked me to be his best man. It's a funny time of day, though. Eleven in the morning?”

“That's what I thought. Maybe that's the way they do it over there—after all, they do drive on the wrong side of the road and eat banana omelettes for breakfast.”

“September the ninth,” muses Bliss as he pores over the invitation in front of him. “I've got a feeling that's about the time when all that baloney started with her husband.”

September the ninth in Vancouver starts propitiously enough, with a brilliantly clear blue sky, and a fresh frosting of snow on the highest peaks. But at street level, where the summer's sun still warms the patrons on the patios of the city's myriad coffee shops, Daphne Lovelace is taking her new hat for a walk and is headed to the seafront along with Bliss.

“You don't think it's too green, do you, David?” she worries, as she clamps the feathery creation to her head against the soft ocean breeze.

“It looks sort of blue to me,” replies Bliss perplexedly, and receives a snort of disdain.

“Hah. Men!”

Trina Button is experiencing similar feelings about her husband as she puts the finishing touches on the banquet table in her expansive dining room.

“Who says you can't have banana cream pies at a wedding?” she demands, and Rick backs off. “Whatever you say, dear.”

Ruth Crowfoot has no such disharmony with the men in her life, and she stands checking out her nicely-shaped figure in the mirrored walls of Trina's bathroom,
wondering when her world will finally stop spinning and she'll wake up.

“Fifteen minutes to makeup, Ms. Ruth,” yells Trina, tapping on the door, and Ruth laughs—like she does every day—like she has done every day since March, when Jordan had finally been put to rest, and Mike Phillips had taken her by the hand and walked her to a neat little apartment building overlooking the harbour at False Creek.

A small dog had started yapping as Phillips had rung the bell, and the owner had calmed it as he'd opened the door.

“Mr. Sanderson? Geoffrey Sanderson?” Phillips had asked, as the grey-haired man's little poodle had rushed out to greet Ruth.

“That's right,” the old Liverpudlian had replied cagily, then his face had lit up at the sight of Ruth. “Oh, hello, lass. We feed the ducks together don't we?”

“Can we come in for a moment?” Phillips had continued, well aware that neither Ruth nor the other man had any idea what was happening, and Sanderson had happily stepped aside.

“Of course you can. Come in; come in. I don't very often get visitors.”

“This is Ruth Crowfoot. I think you knew her mother once—at the Beatles' concert at Empire Stadium,” Phillips had said as they'd sat in Sanderson's tidy little apartment.

Phillips had felt Ruth's pulse quicken under his fingertips, and he'd sensed her questioning look, but he had kept his gaze on Sanderson and watched as the aging man's face had slowly warmed with the memory.

“Do you mean Nellie?” he had queried, and Ruth had nodded in a daze.

“Yes. She called herself Nellie.”

“I looked everywhere for your mother, lass,” he had carried on, giving Ruth's arm a gentle pat. “She was a lovely woman, lovely colour—like a nice piece of mahogany. And her eyes were pitch black—not unlike yours. I even left the boys in the lurch for the rest of the tour. I mean, Vancouver's a beautiful place and all that—I might have stayed anyway. But it was your mother who kept me here.”

“But she said she met someone called George.”

“Aye, lass. I used to tell all the girls that. Used to fancy meself with a guitar, I did. 'Course I weren't no good, not like George himself, but I could strum a tune or two, and I prob'ly dreamt that one day he'd not turn up and I could've stepped in for him.”

“Nellie had a baby, Geoffrey,” Phillips had chimed in gently, noticing that Ruth had clammed up and was biting back tears.

“Did she?” he'd replied. “She never told me. Not that it would have mattered. I would have loved to have had some kids, but it didn't turn out that way. ”

Ruth's lips had puckered and, as tears had streamed down her face, she had timidly asked, “Can I come and feed the ducks with you again ... Dad?”

“You knew Geoffrey was my father, didn't you?” Ruth had questioned a few days later when she'd got her mind straight.

“I had a pretty good idea, yes,” Phillips had replied.

“But how did you know?”

“It's a secret,” he had said, knowing that Geoffrey Sanderson would never remember the scruffy man in a baseball cap who had sat next to him one lunchtime while he was enjoying a small beer outside a water-front tavern.

“OK,” yells Trina playfully at her bathroom door, “I'm coming in to put your face on. Ready or not.”

The door opens and Ruth stands in front of her, still in her dressing gown, with her eyes full.

“Christ. Are you ever going to stop crying?” laughs Trina. “What is it now?”

“Why are you so good to me, Trina?” snivels Ruth.

“Oh, I'm just the same with guinea pigs,” replies Trina, then she leads Ruth to the bedroom, saying, “Come on, girl. We don't want to keep the guests waiting.”

But Ruth is still skeptical that anyone other than Trina and her family will show up, worrying that her second wedding will be no better attended than her first. However, things are different this time—Trina has made sure of that. The Corner Coffee Shoppe has been closed for several months, and is up for sale, but Trina has managed to track down most of the old customers, and Ruth's side of the wedding chapel is bursting. Darcey, Maureen, and Matt—the crossword gang—have all brought partners; Cindy has brought Dave Smith, the telephone engineer, and spends most of the time flapping her engagement ring under noses.

“I thought you said he pinched your bum?” says Raven as she takes a peek.

“I never said I didn't want him to,” protests Cindy.

Robyn from the candle shop and several of the other business owners have closed their doors for a few hours, and Trina has drummed up most of her kick boxing class, together with Erica from the cancer support group.

Inspector Wilson, Sergeant Brougham and many of Phillips' colleagues round out the congregation, though Hammer Hammett, Ruth's lawyer, sends his regrets.

“His only regret is that he didn't get a fat cheque because the police dropped all the charges,” Trina had said when she'd opened his response. Geoffrey Sanderson looks and feels like a king as he walks his only daughter up the aisle with Maid of Honour Trina Button tripping along behind. But if Sanderson is a king, Ruth is the beautiful princess, and her charming prince waits at the altar with stars in his eyes.

“Have you got the ring, Dave?” Mike Phillips mutters from the corner of his mouth for the tenth time, and Bliss instinctively checks his pocket again.

“Yes. Stop worrying, Mike. Ruth doesn't want a ring, she only wants you.”

“Everyone back to my place,” yells Trina as soon as the officiator has said, “You may kiss the bride.” She has a very special surprise waiting in a backyard marquee, and can't wait to see Ruth's face.

The Bootles, a tribute band with a Ringo look-alike on drums and a couple of wig-wearing kids on guitars, are apparently waiting for the fourth member as the guests grab glasses of champagne and crowd in. “Where's George?” asks “Paul” and, on cue, Ruth's father takes to the stage and picks up the guitar, saying into the microphone, “This is for the most beautiful woman in the world. My daughter, Ruth.” Then the band begins and he sings sweetly, “Is there anybody going to listen to my story. All about the girl who came to stay ...”

“Ah girl. Girl,” choruses the rest of the band, together with most of the audience, and Geoffrey Sanderson's lifelong dream comes true.

The applause is deafening when Geoffrey takes a bow, and the “real” George Harrison feigns reluctance in taking over from him for a few seconds until Geoffrey
is embraced by his daughter and has to leave the stage.

“I've been practicing that for months,” beams Geoffrey as Ruth melts all over him.

Trina has long-since given up on repairing her protege's makeup, so she just dabs at Ruth's face with a napkin as the Bootles strike up “All My Loving,” quickly followed by “And I Love Her.”

“When I'm Sixty-Four” is playing in the background as Ruth Phillips finally plucks up the courage to deal with the cloud on her horizon, and she walks her husband out of the tent into Trina's garden, asking, “Do you really love me, Mike?”

“You know I do. I've loved you from the moment I first saw you.”