Little Boy Blues (10 page)

In the dining room, Frances Ann had covered the table with charts indicating which volunteer searchers would be searching which areas. Maps were spread out and colour-coded. The phone continued to ring. So did the doorbell. Within fifteen minutes, four casseroles had arrived from friends and neighbours.

Mrs. Parnell was already installed and reporting that the previous evening spent with Donald Donnie and Loretta had been most congenial.

“Ms. MacPhee, you look like you haven’t slept a wink. I had a most excellent night, as did young Ferguson.”

Alvin raised a languid hand in greeting. Slow motion. The kitchen was crawling with Fergusons, but no one else paid the slightest bit of attention to me. Which was fine. Except that they were all swilling coffee and no one offered me a cup. I wondered if my tongue would actually have to drag on the ground first.

“No one gets waited on here,” Vince said.

I can take a hint. I got my own coffee.

Mrs. Ferguson, wearing a huge flowered apron, was busy heaping a small mountain of pancakes and maple syrup onto a platter to feed the group that was about to head off to search woods on the perimeter of town.

A massive electric griddle with what looked like two pounds of bacon sizzled on the counter.

“Poor Allie is so thin,” his mother said.

“Especially since that terrible bout of pneumonia,” Frances Ann added.

Vince glanced meaningfully at me.

“He was thin when I got him,” I said. You could blame me for a lot of things, but Alvin’s ectomorphic state was not one of them.

“What do you think of these posters, Camilla?” Tracy said. “I’m putting them up on telephone poles and bulletin boards all over town. Someone must have seen him. Allie’s going to help me. Aren’t you?”

Alvin nodded.

“We have to keep busy,” Tracy said. “We have to do something.”

The posters had a picture of Jimmy that I hadn’t seen yet. He leaned against a Mazda Miata convertible, young and strong in jeans and a plain white tee. His arms were folded and he was smiling. He looked like any happy, healthy young man. Handsomer than ninety-nine per cent. Gussie grinned by his side.

HAVE YOU SEEN OUR JIMMY?
Gerald James (Jimmy) Ferguson, aged 21
Last seen July 1st, early evening
The boardwalk behind the Esplanade fire station
Needs medication for life threatening condition
REWARD FOR ANY INFORMATION

A fringe of phone numbers was cut at the bottom of each poster.

“Vince did the poster on the computer. The little kids helped me separate the phone numbers,” Tracy said.

Alvin made a choking sound. Mrs. Parnell laid a soothing hand on his shoulder.

Alvin croaked, “People don’t even need a picture. Everyone in town knew Jimmy.”

“Everyone in town
knows
Jimmy,” Frances Ann said, with a touch of anthracite in her voice.

“It’s been all over the news since he went missing, Tracy. What makes you think these posters would make a difference?” Alvin said.

“I think they’re a good idea.” I wanted to comfort Alvin. “Who knows, maybe someone who has been out of town on vacation will get back and see these posters and remember something about that night.”

“Evening,” said Vince.

“Did you think we would let our Jimmy out alone on the street at night?” Mrs. Ferguson turned to me with the hot spatula in her hand. “We supervised him properly. It was broad daylight. How can a boy vanish off the street in broad daylight, and no one see a thing?”

“Oh, Ma.” Tracy wrapped her arms around her mother. Vince’s knuckles tightened.

“My point exactly,” I said. “Someone will have seen him. They might not know it’s important, but they will have noticed some detail. These posters will trigger a call.”

Probably many calls, I thought. Of course, most of them from fools or scoundrels, but all it would take was one new lead.

“I’ll help you post them,” I said. “I’ll go with Alvin.”

No one paid attention.

Alvin slipped forward in his chair. “He’s dead,” he said. “Our Jimmy’s drowned.”

“Shut up, Allie,” Vince said.

Mrs. Ferguson sank into the empty seat at the head of the table. She raised her flowered apron and wept quietly into its folds. The burning bacon set off the fire alarm. Gussie howled.

Iwas about to open the door and head out when a visitor arrived and created another stir. Mrs. Ferguson half-rose from her seat. “Father Blaise. It is so good of you to come.”

“Father Blaise.” Tracy seemed overcome. Maybe she was relieved to have a distraction to get Alvin to stop rocking and his mother to stop crying.

“Father Blaise.” Vince shook hands in a manly fashion.

Another chorus of Father Blaises rose from the Fergusons who had been polishing off the second attempt at bacon in the kitchen. They wiped crumbs from their mouths as they clustered near the front entrance. Frances Ann stood in the door from the dining room.

I recognized the priest from the photo with Jimmy Ferguson. Father Blaise nodded gravely at everyone. Not being the most church-going person in the world, I was having a bit of trouble figuring out his appeal. He somehow managed to be both pear-shaped and doughy, a Tweedledee-Tweedledum kind of man. Too much nose and not nearly enough chin. If the hair on his head was lank and sparse, he more than made up for it with the stuff that sprouted from his nostrils and ears. His watery blue eyes swam behind coke-bottle glasses. Of course, I’m no beauty myself, but something about the man put me off. Probably his air of easy authority. Father Blaise struck me as an old-style priest. He was somewhere on the near side of
seventy, and he looked like a man who expected “how high” to be the answer to most of his instructions.

Only Alvin hung back. I was proud of him.

“Of course, I came as soon as I could,” he said.

“It’s so good of you, Father, when you were right in the middle of your vacation. Did you drive all the way back from Maine?”

Father Blaise was escorted to the living room. Tracy raced back to the kitchen to make fresh tea and probably bake a few tea biscuits and maybe a layer cake. Father Blaise sat like he owned the place and glanced at the First Communion photos, the palm frond tucked in Jimmy’s frame.

“My poor people,” Father Blaise said. “My poor dear people. How are we to deal with this terrible thing?” Damned if it didn’t sound like he meant it. “Our own lovely Jimmy. He must be all right.”

Mrs. Ferguson blew her nose. Father Blaise squeezed her hand. “Dear Mary. I can only believe that God will take care of our lad.” His voice was choked, and his colourless eyes got a bit more watery.

Everyone seemed to take comfort from this. I wished I could have shared his confidence. Tracy fluttered into the room with a tray of something new and a dangerously steaming pot of tea. She had the china teapot and the matching creamer and sugar. Cube sugar and silver tongs too. And a package of After Eights. Behind her, Frances Ann carried a second tray with china cups. Father Blaise was getting the full treatment.

The second time they filled the tea-cups, Father Blaise seemed to spot me, although I was doing my best to be inconspicuous.

“I don’t believe I...” he said, getting to his feet.

Tracy did the honours. “Father, this is Camilla MacPhee,
who’s visiting with Alvin. She’s…”

“MacPhee. MacPhee,” he said. “They tell me your father was the teacher. Went off to Ottawa to become a school principal, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

I don’t take kindly to hand squeezes as a rule.

“A fine man, your father, very fine. I knew your mother too, of course, but that was many years ago, before you were born.”

“Really?” I said.

“How wonderful you can be here to offer your support during the search for Jimmy. Bless you,” he said.

Vince lifted a dark brow. Tracy fluttered. Mrs. Ferguson blessed herself.

Five minutes later, I’d had to revise my opinion completely. That’s the problem with letting your biases influence your initial reactions. Sometimes you get it wrong.

That didn’t mean I wanted to hang around.

• • •

Well, how
could
a kid like Jimmy disappear off the street in broad daylight in a town like this? I kept asking myself the same question as I set off on another stroll to clear my head. Alvin was trapped in the living room for the duration of Father Blaise’s visit. Mrs. Parnell had given me a nod to indicate she’d be watching out for his welfare. And Tracy had thoughtfully provided me with a stack of “have you seen Jimmy” posters and a heavy-duty stapler.

Back at the Fergusons’, they would be heading into the second decade of the rosary. I stapled my way along Crescent Street towards the downtown area. After the ninth person said hello, I stopped looking behind me to see who they were
talking to. People on the street in Sydney are nothing if not friendly. It took a little getting used to. Twice I had to tell total strangers my father’s name. I had no trouble at all getting directions to the police station.

• • •

“What did you say your name was?” Ray Deveau said pleasantly.

“Camilla MacPhee. I’m a lawyer with Justice for Victims in Ottawa. I’d like to talk to you about Jimmy Ferguson.”

“Justice for Victims?”

“That’s right. Lennie Mombourquette, who I believe is your cousin, suggested I drop in and say hi. Is this a bad time?”

I found nothing of the rodent about Deveau. He had a sandy crew cut, light blue eyes, pale freckles and a build that indicated he’d played college football quite a few years back. He had a smile that would melt ice. “What’s your connection with Jimmy Ferguson again? I didn’t quite catch that.”

“Terrible thing about Jimmy’s disappearance. I’m staying with the family, and they’re really ripped up about it.”

“And you say you’re a lawyer?”

“Right.”

“Sorry, and what did you say your name was?”

“MacPhee. Camilla. My family was from Sydney originally, but we’ve been in Ottawa for more than thirty years. Home sweet home and that. What was your father’s name? I bet mine would know him.”

“MacPhee? And you’re a friend of Len’s? That’s great.”

“More or less. I dropped in to see if there was anything I could do to help.”

“What do you mean? Besides what the police and the
volunteer searchers are doing?”

“And I also thought I might pick up a bit of background, so I don’t put my foot in it.”

“Oh, yeah. How’s Lennie doing anyway?”

“Lennie? He’s been busy scurrying around Ottawa. Criminal investigations.”

“Haven’t seen him in years. He called me about this case. I guess he’s interested in it for some reason. Real focused guy, Lennie.”

“He knows one of the Fergusons, Alvin. The boy who lives in Ottawa.”

“Alvin? The artistic one? Don’t tell me he’s in trouble?”

I thought he was trying to suppress a grin.

“Certainly not,” I said. Not really a lie, since Alvin’s various arrests happened in the service of Justice for Victims and didn’t constitute trouble in its purest sense.

“That’s good. He’s his own man, all right.”

“He’s freaking out about this.”

Deveau nodded. “Not surprised. They’re close, Jimmy and Alvin, aren’t they?”

“That reminds me. Do you remember the circumstances when Jimmy nearly drowned?”

His forehead creased. “Vaguely. I think I was at police college at the time. He fell into the pond in the park, didn’t he? They thought he was going to die. I remember the whole parish praying for him.”

“I don’t have all the details. But something tells me it’s connected with the state Alvin’s in over this disappearance.”

Deveau raised his pastel eyebrows. “I thought you were a friend of the family.”

“You know families. They don’t always like to talk about things.”

“I guess not.”

“I imagine you’ve interviewed known sex offenders.”

“Standard procedure.”

“Could an assault like that happen? Jimmy would have been street-proofed.”

“Look, I think we’re looking at some kind of accidental mishap. But we have to follow up everything. Can’t take a chance. Jimmy was always getting caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had a child’s judgement. He couldn’t understand a lot of stuff, and then he got into these situations. In some ways he was so innocent.”

I held my breath. “Was?”

“Sorry, that slipped out,” Ray Deveau said. “We’ve searched the entire region. We’re combing the woods. The kid’s vanished.”

“And no one saw him,” I said.

“Not since dusk on Canada Day. Everyone in Sydney knew Jimmy. He had his rounds.”

“What do you think could have happened to him?”

“Well, the harbour’s right there. Like I said, he wasn’t always sensible. Maybe he had something in his hand that blew into the water. Maybe he leaned over to see something. Wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened.”

“What did you do to investigate? Did you treat it like a twentysomething guy who took an unscheduled holiday?”

I must have had an edge to my voice, because Ray Deveau jerked back in his chair.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. But most missing persons make the choice to go missing.”

“We didn’t view it like that. Anything but. This is a close-knit community. We all saw Jimmy almost every day. The situation was treated like a missing child.”

“You didn’t wait twenty-four hours?”

“Sure didn’t.”

“But young guys stay over at friends’ houses and forget to call home and all that. Sometimes it takes a while for people to realize that they’re really gone.”

“Not the Fergusons. Like I said, they kept a close eye on Jimmy. I would say at any time the mother and Vince both knew where he was. They drove him places, they were tight. Tracy too, even though she’s not living at home any more. If you’d asked me this last week, I would have said they were way too overprotective.”

“So when did they report him missing?”

“Same night. He was supposed to show up at his friend’s place and spend the evening. Vince Ferguson went to pick him up at ten, and the friend said he’d never arrived.”