The Dells (33 page)

“Well,” Maureen said.

“No,” he said. “Of course she wasn't. Why would you ask that?”

“She was murdered on Saturday night,” Maureen said. “Shoe and Claudia Hahn found her body in the Dells yesterday morning.”

Panic seized his heart and squeezed. He couldn't get his breath. He dropped onto a kitchen chair. “Jesus Christ, Maureen,” he gasped. “You — you don't think I killed her, do you?”

“I don't know what to think anymore,” she said. Tears streaked her cheeks. “
Goddamnit
, Hal.”

She stalked from the kitchen, slamming open the sliding door to the back garden, slamming it shut again. Hal watched her depart with what he could only describe as a feeling of total indifference.

Shoe tossed the green trash bag into the cargo area of Patty Dutton's white Lincoln Navigator, on top of a stack of folding chairs.

“Thanks,” Patty said, smiling at him as he closed the rear door of the Navigator. Her smile was a bit strained, he thought. She turned to Rachel. “Rae, next time I try to talk you into organizing something like this, just shoot me, okay?”

“You got it.”

The small park was almost empty, almost back to normal. All that remained, besides a few overflowing trash barrels and recycling bins, was the big rented tent shelter. The rental company would be coming later to dismantle it and cart it away.

“You okay?” Rachel asked Patty.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Patty said, voice flat.

Earlier that morning, while Shoe had been helping Rachel and Patty strike the kitchen shelter, Tim Dutton had come by the park to pick up his solar power gear. The
tension between Dutton and his wife had been so intense it all but hummed, like an electric motor on overload.

“Goddamned cops,” Dutton had complained. “You'd think they'd have better things to do than hassle me about Marty. No wonder there are so many unsolved murders in this city.” He turned on Patty. “What the fuck did you tell them, anyway?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Tim,” Patty snapped, cheeks flaming. “Your fucking
girlfriend
was murdered. You seriously think the police are going to accept what your
wife
tells them without checking? And don't give me that wide-eyed innocent look, you two-timing son of a bitch. You've been screwing her practically since she started working for you.”

Muttering under his breath, Dutton had thrown the solar gear in the trunk of his Audi and driven away. Patty's relief had been almost orgasmic.

Patty climbed up into the driver's seat of the Navigator. “See you later,” she said, and drove off. Shoe picked up the rolled-up kitchen tent and he and Rachel headed toward the park exit. Harvey Wiseman and Claudia Hahn, walking side by side across the grass, a few feet apart, each carrying a trash bag and wearing gardening gloves, were making one last round of the park, collecting trash. Rachel watched them, a wistful expression on her face.

“Something wrong?” Shoe asked.

She smiled. “No.” She shrugged. “I dunno,” she amended. “I feel, well, I'm not quite sure what I feel. It's not jealousy, precisely, although maybe there's a touch of envy. Maybe it's regret, opportunities lost, chances not taken. Not that I blame Doc. Claudia is very beautiful. I wish them well.”

“But … ”

“Notwithstanding that both my marriages were complete disasters, a state of affairs for which I'm not entirely blameless — I can be a prickly bitch sometimes,
as you well know — I like waking up with a warm body beside me.” She laughed. “Maybe I'll get a dog.” She waved at Wiseman and Claudia, who both waved back. “Consider yourself lucky, Doc,” she said, half to herself. “In more ways than one.”

As Shoe was closing the garage door after returning the bulky roll of the kitchen tent to the rafters, Harvey Wiseman and Claudia Hahn walked up the driveway. They stood very close together, not quite holding hands.

“Shoe,” Claudia said. “I spoke to Jake Gibson this morning. He'd said be happy to speak to you about Marvin, but it will have to be today. He's taking the train home to Winnipeg this evening. Shall I call him?”

“Yes, please.”

Claudia took out her cellphone and made the call. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she said, “Jake, I'm with Joseph Schumacher now. He'd still like to talk to you about Marvin Cartwright.” She paused momentarily, then said, “Hold on.” She lowered the phone and said to Shoe, “Would now be all right?”

“Yes, of course.”

Claudia raised the phone. “Jake. We'll see you in about half an hour then.” She closed her phone. “My car is on the other side of the park.”

“We'll take my father's,” Shoe said.

Rachel said, “Mind if I tag along?”

“Not at all,” Claudia said.

Rachel turned to Doc. “I hope you don't mind if we borrow Claudia for a while.”

“What?” Wiseman harrumphed self-consciously. “No, of course not.”

Rachel popped onto her toes and kissed his bristly cheek.

Jake Gibson was staying with his daughter and sonin-law in a small, over-furnished townhouse in Etobicoke, just off Islington Avenue, within spitting distance of the
ten-lane concrete slash of Highway 401. It had a narrow, walled patio with a retractable awning to provide some protection from the August sun. No breeze reached the patio, however, and in less than two minutes, Shoe's shirt was sticking to the plastic lawn chair.

Jake Gibson's daughter had made a big pitcher of iced tea for them. Emily St. Onge was a wiry, energetic woman in her early fifties, with bright blue eyes and a quick, infectious smile. Her husband, Len St. Onge, was a short, elfin-looking man of about sixty.

“You're Mr. Blizzard!” Rachel piped, when he smiled as he shook her hand.

“Ah, yes,” he said, blushing slightly, smile widening. “How kind of you to remember.”

“I loved your show,” Rachel said. “I watched it every day after school till I was thirteen or fourteen.” To a puzzled Claudia Hahn, she explained, “Mr. Blizzard was an old man who lived in a castle of ice at the North Pole with Wally the Walrus and Percy the Penguin, both hand puppets. Marvin Cartwright told us that Percy must have been lost, since penguins were indigenous to the Antarctic, not the Arctic.” She turned back to Mr. St. Onge. “Pardon me, but you must be a hundred years old.”

“Not quite,” Len St. Onge said with a laugh. “They made me up to look older when I was doing the program. You're not the first one to notice that the makeup artist was amazingly prescient. It frightens me sometimes.”

Emily and Len St. Onge excused themselves.

“They'll be happy to see the back of me,” Jake Gibson said. He was burly and grey, with a ruddy complexion.

“I'm sure they won't,” Claudia said with a warm smile. “What time is your train?”

“Six o'clock. Damned nuisance, not being able to drive, but I enjoy travelling by train, especially first class.
I can drink all the wine I want.”

“Do you need a drive to Union Station?”

“Thank you, but Em and Len are taking me.” He looked at Shoe. His eyes were a soft, mossy green. “So, how can I help you, Mr. Schumacher? It's been thirty-five years since I lost touch with Marvin and my memory isn't what it used to be.”

“Anything you could tell us about him would be a help,” Shoe said.

“That wouldn't be much, I'm afraid, even if my memories of him were clearer.”

“Did he ever mention a woman named Ruth Braithwaite?” Shoe asked.

“Ruth Braithwaite,” he said, as if trying the name on for size, seeing how it felt in his mouth. “Let me see. Hmm. No, not that I can recall. Which isn't to say, however, that he never did. Of course, he was an extremely private man. Not easy to get to know. Not easy at all. The only reason we were friends, and I use that term loosely, is that we shared an interest in birds. I was — still am, when I can get out — an enthusiastic birder and Marvin was an expert on the migratory, as well as nonmigratory, birds of eastern Canada and the United States. He wrote a number of books on the subject that were required reading. He was less of a birder per se than a scientist, but still a good man to spend time with in the field. Unfortunately, he didn't get to spend as much time as he would have liked in the field, what with having to look after his mother.”

“Did he have any other friends, birders or otherwise?”

“He must have had,” Gibson said with a nod, “but I didn't know any of them. Except Claudia, of course. And the school librarian. What was her name? Gretchen? Gertrude?”

“Miss Scarlatti was librarian the year I was at the
school,” Claudia Hahn said. “Her name was Carmen.”

“Yes, of course. Odd woman. Always wore red. Something to do with her name, I suppose. Wrote satirical pornography in her spare time. Or was it pornographic satire? Ended up in Hollywood. Won an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay, I believe.”

“Jake, stop it,” Claudia admonished.

“It's true, I swear. Marvin may have helped her find a publisher. However, none of this helps Mr. Schumacher, does it? Outside of Miss Scarlatti, Claudia, and myself, I know of no one Marvin might have called friend. He was a very lonely man, I think. His mother, well, I suspect his relationship with her was not an altogether healthy one. He never said anything to me, of course, but I had the impression that she was a very demanding woman.”

“Is there any other kind?” Rachel murmured to Claudia.

“There was one thing,” Gibson added slowly, thoughtfully. “He showed me a sketch of a bird once. A common robin, I believe it was, but quite a good sketch, as I recall. When I asked him who'd drawn it, he told me it had been done by his fiancée.”

“I didn't know he'd been engaged,” Claudia said.

“He may have had second thoughts about telling me,” Gibson said. “He asked me to keep mum about it. And it was around the time of your, uh … ” He coughed and cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed.

“I understand,” Claudia said, placing her hand on his arm.

“Could his fiancée have been Ruth Braithwaite?” Shoe asked.

“He never told me her name,” Gibson said. “Or, if he did, I've forgotten it.”

“Did he tell you anything about her at all?”

“It was such a long time ago. Let me think.” He fell silent, moss green eyes half closed, while Shoe, Rachel,
and Claudia waited, sipping iced tea. After a moment, he cleared his throat, and said, “I recall asking him if they'd set the date. He said they had to wait until his mother passed away. She may not have approved. Marvin was close to forty and I think his fiancée was quite a bit younger.” He hesitated, then added, “There may have been a child involved.”

Claudia sat up straight.

“His fiancée was pregnant?” Rachel said.

“No, I don't believe so,” Gibson said. He shook his head. “I'm sorry.”

“There
was
a girl Marvin was concerned about,” Claudia said suddenly. “I remember him talking to me about a girl he was certain was being abused. He wanted to help her, but he didn't know what to do about it without making matters worse.”

“Could he have been talking about Marty Elias?” Shoe asked.

“No,” Claudia said. “She was attacked after I was, and I didn't see Marvin again after my rape. The girl he spoke of was a student at the junior high school, I think. A year or two behind you. Her name was Janet or Jane.”

“Could it have been Janey?” Shoe asked.

“Yes,” Claudia exclaimed. “That was the name. Janey.”

“Oh, shit,” Rachel said. “Sorry,” she added sheepishly.

“It's quite all right,” Gibson chuckled. “I was a teacher and a school principal. I've heard it all and used most of it.”

“Who was she?” Claudia asked.

Before Shoe could answer, Emily St. Onge came out of the house. “I'm sorry to interrupt,” she said. “Dad, it's time we were going.”

Shoe stood and shook hands with Mr. Gibson,
thanking him for his time, and his daughter for the iced tea. Claudia hugged Gibson's bulky form, kissed his grizzled cheek, and wished him a safe trip home.

The sun beat down as Shoe, Rachel, and Claudia walked to the car, and he could feel perspiration trickling down his sides. The interior of the car was like a sauna and they drove with all the windows open. After a few minutes of silence, Claudia turned to Shoe.

“So, who was Janey?”

Shoe dropped Rachel and Claudia off at his parents' house. His father was standing in the front yard, directing water from a garden hose onto the parched-looking flower gardens that ran along the front of the house on either side of the enclosed porch. The early evening sun cast golden highlights on his snow-white head.

“Taurus running okay?” his father asked.

“It is,” Shoe said. “Thanks for letting me use it.”

“No problem. It can use the exercise.” He flipped the valve on the hose nozzle that shut off the water. “Help me put this away, will you?”

Shoe wound the hose onto the reel attached to the wall beside the outside hydrant, then walked his father to the backyard. Rachel and Claudia were standing by the fence, talking to Harvey Wiseman, who was watering a small stand of greyish, unhappy-looking tomato plants that bore only a few small, green fruit. When he saw Shoe, he shut off the water and lay down the garden hose.

“Do you have any plans for dinner?” he asked.

“No,” Shoe said. He assumed he'd eat with his parents. However, it was already after six o'clock and he wanted to talk to Janey Hallam again first.

“Would you like to join Rachel, Claudia, and me? I have a friend who owns a restaurant in Bloor West Village. Best perogies in town. I have reservations for seven o'clock.” He looked at his watch. “Which means we should get moving.”