She Felt No Pain (5 page)

She parked next to his sassy blue Smart Car in the driveway of the white-sided villa. Except for its cedar-shingle roof, it would be more at home in the Aegean than overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The mighty peaks of the Olympics faced her, snowpack still spilling from the uppermost ranges like vanilla ice cream onto the purple peaks below. From eleven to seventeen kilometres wide, the strait was a living creature whose face changed with the prevailing winds. In summer, with the warmer water, fog banks began the morning, first on one side then the other, clearing to blue skies in the afternoon. “It must be June. I can’t see the street,” her father joked.

Floppy-leaved banana plants nearly seven feet high grew by the house. An irrepressible and stinky kiwi climbed its hairy way to the front deck. In the side yard next to a vacant lot overgrown with alders and the occasional bigleaf maple, muscular canes of Himalayan blackberries began to snake over the fence. A hot tub with a gazebo and purple and pink clematis vines completed the spa image, but summer was not its time, rather an icy January when a few snowflakes melted on your head as steam rose around you.

The family hadn’t always lived here. It had been her father’s surprise as she entered high school to move them from dark, secluded East Sooke to this sunny hillside. But it hadn’t helped the rocky marriage. What had brought Bonnie Rice and Norman Martin together in university hadn’t lasted the decades as their personalities diverged with a vengeance. Bonnie had been gone ten long years. The tiny holly bush she had planted for her daughter by the kitchen window now bore eight feet of shiny, prickly leaves, awaiting its star turn before Christmas. Did its growth seem like a reproach to them both?

Holly let herself in and was immediately greeted by a black-and-white forty-pound jumping jack, a streak of “paint” down his face. “Hello, Shogun,” she said to the two-year-old border collie, his gay tail held high and his soft muzzle shovelling her hand. As a rescue, he’d been Hogan then Logan, answering to anything as long as he wasn’t called late for dinner. The dog gave her father a focus other than his consuming research. He had taught Popular Culture at the University of Victoria for the last thirty years and had published countless journal articles as well as a book on Victorian children’s board games.

Shucking off her boots in the foyer, she took the circular oak staircase to the master suite he’d given her, retaining for himself the other two bedrooms and bathroom. Or was it because he didn’t want to remember the king-sized marriage bed and its six-piece matching cherry furniture? At first she felt awkward lying where her parents had once slept like knight and lady on a tomb, but sometimes when Shogun and his jittery feet joined her in the night, she welcomed its space. A small balcony gave the house’s best view, though all of the front rooms, including the kitchen, overlooked the water.

“Bye, bye, Miss American Pie,” drifted from the CD player in the solarium. She searched her memory, the quiz games she’d played with her father. Now he was in the Seventies, one of the best periods for food, television and music. He submerged himself in the decade he was teaching. Last fall it had been the Fifties, too far removed from her mind set. She took off her duty belt, placed the Glock in a drawer and put on shorts and t-shirt. Free from the Kevlar corset, she flexed her shoulders.

In the kitchen, she saw her father gazing out the window across the strait to Washington. Though no individual houses were in sight at such a distance, she felt mirrored by the Americans. The population was smaller, and a great chunk of the land was protected in the Olympic National Park by a country which had greater foresight. Across Puget Sound lay the shopping and airline metropolis of Seattle. Waves were bobbing the fishing boats on this sunny day. Great loads of shrimp, halibut and salmon would fill the nets. Far out, a container ship headed out to sea. She picked up the field glasses and read “Hanjin”.

“What’s up, old pal?” she asked. Norman Martin, never Norm, turned his cool, azure-eyed gaze to her. He topped six feet, and he was slim, his silvery blond hair trim and smooth. Lately she thought she’d imagined a slight stoop, though the adjective
courtly
fit him well. He scorned bad language and tsked at her occasional “fuck”. Social-services lawyer Bonnie had cursed like a trooper at the unfairness that life dealt those who sought her aid. “Your father can’t help it if he lives in an ivory tower where it’s so quiet that you can hear yourself age,” she had told Holly. “I hope you choose to live in the real world and make a difference.”

“I’m glad you’re back early. I have instructions about dinner.” Norman ruffled the silky fur of the animal, its flagging tail knocking from side to side and its feet dancing in anticipation of a walk.

“Are you going somewhere?” Though he’d taken one summer course for the extra money, recently he’d been going to dog agility shows and had begun training Shogun. Much of this was a result of his new friendship with a lady up the hill on Randy’s Place. Madeleine Hamza, Swiss-Swede and the divorcée of a mysterious Egyptian engineer-millionaire, was allowing him to use the expensive agility equipment on her lawn. “I live alone. My dogs are my life,” she had said when they’d first met.

The friendship was a healthy sign. Holly wondered if her father had been involved with anyone during his years alone. What about the departmental secretary who baked him blackberry pies on his birthday? He’d never filed for divorce or even probated her mother’s will, to her knowledge. Did he, like Holly, believe she was dead? He never said as much but ran an ad at intervals in the
Times Colonist
seeking information. If anything had developed, he never mentioned it. Any avenues she might pursue with her connections to solve the mystery of Bonnie’s disappearance had best be kept to herself until she was certain. In the months she’d been home, she hadn’t found out much.

“Maddie and I are off to Wiffen Spit to cut broom,” he said, brandishing a shiny pair of expensive secateurs, a Christmas gift from her, and fastening it into a leather holster on his belt. “Fifteen of us are going. Some red hat society she belongs to. We have to cut these pernicious bushes before the flowering is over. Root and branch. Do or die!” He referred to a showy but invasive plant of the pea family. Since being brought across the oceans by homesick Scots in the nineteenth century, it had elbowed out local favourites with its atomic tangerine blossoms, prolific seeds and woody stems. The sentimental favourites of Garry oak meadows were in particular peril. A yearly campaign run by zealots as serious as crusaders called for its eradication on the prized curvilinear finger of land which sheltered Sooke Harbour. Dog walkers loved the Spit and appreciated the free poop bags at the brass-gated entrance.

Dressed in a tie-dyed rainbow shirt he’d made himself, baggy knee-length khaki shorts, and his prized Vietnam War sandals with tire-tread soles, Norman primed a shoulder pack with a thermos and packages of peanut-butter crackers. “Dinner’s all ready, so you needn’t worry. This period is a cinch. Convenience is in, but weird food fads haven’t arrived. I’m planning a quiche with tuna. The crust is baked. Coleslaw’s in the fridge. It’s a winner in every decade, bottled dressing or that boiled version I make for the Oughts period. Cabbage is versatile because it keeps.”

She laughed but ignored the real-man quiche joke. “Our ancestors thrived on it,” she replied. The hobbyhorse of the popular culture themes grounded him. Only sixty, he’d never retire unless they closed the university.

“And later we’ll watch the first year of the
Mary Tyler Moore
Show.”

“Surely not the entire year.” Once the sitcoms started rolling, she couldn’t shake the theme song from her head. “You’re going to make it after all.” The Minneapolis skyline. Why couldn’t he just watch hockey and drink beer like a normal Canadian man?

“Keep it up, and I’ll play
The Partridge Family
.” He glanced at the dog. “Maddie’s bringing a backpack for Shogun so he can carry a few jerky treats. It’ll be a good time to teach him the down-and-stay command.”

A toot from a black Kia SUV sounded in the drive, and Shogun erupted in the signature deep-throated barking which had earned him his latest name. Down the hill he charged as Bentley, a venerable Corgi and dog of the day from Madeleine’s four-pack, urged him on from the vehicle. The feisty woman waved a medieval metal claw apparatus, which Holly recognized from Home Hardware as a Pullerbear. This was all-out war.

The late afternoon passed quietly as Holly basked on the deck while a swallow swooped back and forth, building a nest in the small birdhouse swinging from the oak. Clearly, she needed to get a library card. Her father’s current reading selections covered the patio table.
The Exorcist. Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Watership
Down. Fear of Flying?
Shaking her head, she went inside to the bookshelf and chose L.R. Wright’s
The Suspect
, the first and only Canadian mystery hardcover to win the coveted American Edgar award. In high school, she’d given a book report on it. Now she was living the life of an RCMP officer.

Life had changed when her mother had disappeared. Holly had been committed to a career in botany at UBC. Then she had switched to criminal justice, completed her degree, and joined the force. After the six months of training at the Depot in Winnipeg, she’d been mentored in The Pas, then posted to Port Hardy up island, and finally to Fossil Bay when she made corporal. It was close to her home but not enough to disqualify her, since the force didn’t want officers working in their own neighbourhoods. The Fossil Bay detachment had only been activated ten years before to monitor the road west to Port Renfrew. Domestic disputes, speeders, drunk drivers and teens with six-packs led the docket. In the summer, car break-ins increased at parks along the Juan de Fuca Trail. Overnight hikers were advised to use the seasonal shuttle buses.

She cracked open the book and was immediately drawn to the unconventional plot of the concise and imaginative novel. In a quirky but daring twist, the murderer was known from the beginning and shared the point of view. The denouement was simply a cat-and-mouse game involving maddening clues and the question of motivation. The more she worked at her trade, the more Holly wanted to know why, not just how. But if she wanted to play detective, she’d have to move to a larger post.

An hour later, she went inside for a dry cider, sipping it on the deck. Though the view was panoramic, it was far from quiet. Secondary growth aspen and maple on the slopes below separated her from West Coast Road, but in a bandshell effect, the traffic noises revealed the critical artery. The guttural roar of a motorcycle gearing up for the change from sixty to eighty kmh blended with the shriek of jake brakes on a truck heading the other way. The single-lane road, the only east-west connection, was a worrisome fact for those who saw development as inevitable.

As she closed the book, leaving a few tempting chapters, she heard a car crunch gravel. The KIA, packed with dog crates for Madeleine’s brood, raced up the slope, skidding to a dusty stop at the back porch. Holly waved and called, but the limber little woman, her flyaway reddish hair blowing in the breeze, hurried to Norman’s side. She opened the door, then stood, hands on her hips with a worried frown. Holly left the porch and came around to the back deck as Shogun leaped out, backpack swinging. Her father was crouched in the front seat, his lean face contorted. In reflex, she put her hand on her chest in panic. Surely not a heart attack. He never talked much about his health. Her family had skated free of illness, pure luck that she’d taken for granted. Had fortune changed her mind?

“Dad, what happened?” She considered the car, pristine and uncrumpled, windshield intact. Not an accident, then. Nor something so serious as to call an ambulance or drive straight to Victoria General. “Did you fall?” The elevated spit embracing Canada’s southernmost port used sharp rip-rap for its breakwater and could be dangerous if they had left the gravel path to uproot the stubborn broom. She searched his knobby knees for signs of damage. Not a mark.

“Ooooooo,” he said with an undisguised wail, wincing as Holly and Madeleine helped him from the car, each putting an arm under his and heaving at the count of three. “It’s just a wrench. I did it one year starting the damn mower. That’s why I gave you that job, Holly.” With a bitter laugh, he turtled forward.

“Enough self-diagnosis. Let’s get you inside,” Holly said.

For a woman in her late fifties, the wiry Madeleine had muscles from her daily clear-cut hikes with her pack. They maneuvered him with difficulty up the winding Tara stairs to his bedroom. Norman was soon safely tucked in with a very large rum. Straight up. No ice.

“Hot pack or cold?” Holly asked, her first-aid course a dim memory. Tossing a mental coin, they set up a heating pad.

Sipping an orange juice, Madeleine sat on the deck with Holly as they tried to wind down. From past the greenbelt, their neighbour’s time-challenged rooster announced his superiority. “This type of injury is not serious, since it’s merely muscular, but it can last several days, and you know your father. He is very stubborn and independent.” Madeleine’s charming accent replaced
th
with
z
.

“I’m no caregiver. What am I going to do with him?” Holly was thanking the gods that he had class only twice a week. And what about that quiche? Stress was giving her an appetite.

Madeleine pursed her lips together. “Men are very stubborn, but at heart they are babies with pain. It might be a good idea if he got a massage. Or two. And as soon as possible.”

“I’m not sure he’ll agree. They’re expensive,” Holly said. Norman could squeeze a loonie until it laid an egg.

To his egalitarian credit, he’d always cooked for the family. Once he had sprained his ankle and couldn’t get off the couch. Her mother, whose motto was “Suffer in Silence”, had clashed swords with him about his meal plans, by default her responsibility. “For Christ’s sake, can’t you make an exception? One frozen pizza or a TV dinner isn’t going to kill us.” A small-time lawyer turned full-time advocate for women’s rights on the island, aboriginals in particular thanks to her Coastal Salish heritage, Bonnie spent much of her time travelling the province in her battered Bronco, snacking on fruit, nuts, cheese and bread. Meals were an inconvenience she often forgot. Rather than watch her parents continue to bicker, Holly had stepped in at fourteen and made the meat loaf, mashed potatoes and carrot coins for his Forties feast.