Bone Dance (19 page)

“The guy was no good?”

She shook her head vehemently.

Things were starting to fall into place, for me anyway. “Is he the one that cut her?”

“Yes. She got another job singing. He didn't like the way men looked at her when she was on stage. He was afraid she'd find someone else. So he cut her face up so she couldn't work. He cut it up so men wouldn't look at her any more.”

She quieted for a moment and I waited, sensing there was more she'd tell me when she was ready.

“A few months after that, she killed herself.”

“What happened to him?”

“I didn't find out until later, but he died a couple of years after her in a car accident.”

“So you wanted revenge on the man that started it all. But you got the wrong guy.” I put my hand to my nose again. “What did you put in that drink?”

“Rat poison.”

“Christ!” I jumped to my feet and raced into the bathroom. I scrubbed my hands until they were raw, and the new bar of soap was merely a sliver. Just in case a drop had actually touched my lips, I bathed them and rinsed my mouth for good measure. When I was finished, I leaned on the sink, staring in the mirror, wondering what to do next. She had tried to kill me.

When I returned, the girl was lying on the bed, still crying. I stood there, not knowing what to do. She looked so young. If she was Arnie's girl, she could only be about seventeen or eighteen. I suddenly wondered about the beautiful dress she had on and the others I'd seen her in, and thought about the new car sitting outside, but I tried not to think too hard about how a girl like her would get those things.

I walked to the door and opened it. Picking up my horn, I glanced at her once more. I threw her a bone. “Arnie's dead, by the way. He died just last year, knifed by a jealous husband.”

Outside, the air felt cool and clean. Rubbing at the hand that had been splashed, I set off across the parking lot, the gravel squelching noisily in the quiet of the night.

Irene's girl. Irene's gorgeous blue eyes swam up in front of my face as I recalled how beautiful she'd been when I'd known her. Irene. I hadn't thought of her in years. I'd been half in love with her. I remembered that now. But I never stood a chance.
I remembered that summer we'd toured together; it must have been about 1935. She'd been crazy about Arnie; she'd barely noticed me.

My steps faltered.

Arnie had missed part of that tour. About two weeks, because of pneumonia.

I stopped.

The Brant Inn. We'd played a week there. She'd been lonely, and angry with him over something—probably another girl. I had thought I was the luckiest guy in the world.

I hesitated.

Norma. Irene's daughter.

Those eyes.

I tugged up my jacket collar and walked on.

Yes, I'd go see Bert Niosi about a job next week.

Coleen Steele
writes crime and mystery fiction from her home in Bowmanville, Ontario. Two of her stories were awarded Honourable Mention in the Writer's Digest 2001 Writing Competition and she has been published in
Storyteller
magazine. Coleen's fascination with film noir and old radio shows often creeps into her writing
.

Her pretty backup singer, Lee,

She killed at twenty-two.

At thirty-one, the deed was done,

She killed Lee's partner, Lou.

When she was barely thirty-four

She slew the third one, Tim,

And shortly after forty-one

The last singer followed him.

She did it all so carefully

And covered every clue

She'd get away with murder

And she would get what's due

She'd get all the glory—

As last one left alive—

Until Lee's cousin, the cop, showed up

And her career took a dive.

Now she's got a hundred partners

And the spotlight's on each night

But there's no one she can sing to

And not one fan in sight.

And so the moral of this story

If you care to lend an ear—

When no one's left to back you up

You land hard on your rear.

Joy Hewitt Mann

You awake, Stu?”

Stu lurched upright in his chair, rubbing his hand across his face and finding to his horror he'd been dribbling down his chin. Worse still, there were tears on his cheeks. Damn. He must have been dreaming about Belle. Or Joanie, maybe.

“Guess I dozed off.”

“You remember you called me?” Franklin helped him to his feet and steadied him a minute until the blood made its way to his legs. “Something about the stove not working?”

“What? Oh, right.” Stu leaned on Franklin's arm and pushed toward the kitchen. “The elements have been overheating something fierce. Last week after Joanie left, I nearly burned the place down just trying to heat some canned stew.” He grimaced. “Damned if it wasn't one of her pots I ruined.”

“I guess we've all done that at one time or another. How is Joanie, anyway?”

If Stu closed his eyes, he could still picture Franklin and Joanie all those summers ago, Joanie in her blue cotton bathing suit, her blonde pigtails streaming out behind as she ran down the hill to the dock with Franklin close behind. He could hear their shouts again, part fear, part triumph as they swung out over the lake, clinging to the ropes he'd tied to a
couple of big oak limbs overhanging the water. Out they'd fly, while he and Belle held their breaths, afraid the kids would hang on just a second too long and tumble onto the rocks.

“She's okay, I guess.” Stu let go of the other man's arm and leaned against the kitchen counter. “You mind having a look at those elements?”

“Already tested them while you were getting your beauty sleep.” Franklin grinned. “There isn't a thing wrong with them. They seem to be working just fine.”

“Yeah, well. I guess I probably knew that. I just kind of hoped I could tell Joanie something else had caused that little meltdown.” He turned and looked out the window over the sink. He counted two pine grosbeaks on one feeder and half a dozen goldfinches nibbling safflower seeds on the other. There were shadows gathering down at the dock and thunder clouds building up over the far shore of the lake. It was the best time of day to catch a bass. He'd try that new lure Joanie gave him for his birthday.

He turned back from the window. “Thanks for coming, anyway. I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”

“Forget it.” Franklin frowned. “I don't like to see you so worried, though. What's got you all riled up, anyway?”

“Aw, it's just Joanie. She and that—that fellow she lives with.” Stu sank into a chair in the breakfast nook and began shuffling the salt and pepper around. “You've met her new guy, haven't you?”

Franklin chuckled. “Sure. I was at their wedding. Must've been ten years ago now. Remember?”

“Oh, right. Well, he's some kind of geriatric psychologist, whatever in God's name that means.” He shrugged. “Anyway, Joanie listens to every goddamned word comes out of his mouth, especially when it's about me. Made me take some
kind of memory test, and I guess I didn't exactly come off with flying colours. Anyway, now they think I'd be better off in a seniors' home with folks my own age.” He snorted. “Makes me sound like a little kid.”

“I sure don't want to take sides here, Stu, but they might have a point. It's maybe not such a good idea you being out here all by yourself.”

“I'm only here for the summer, and besides, there's people in the other cottages.”

“A lot of these places have changed hands recently. They're mostly weekend cottagers, and I'll bet you haven't met many of them yet. Knowing you, I'm not so sure you'd call on them for help, even if you did run into trouble.”

“There's nothing wrong with me, and if something does happen, you're welcome to carry me out in a box.” Stu didn't want to talk about it any more. He got up and took Franklin by the arm and pushed him toward the screen door. “You've got better things to do than stand around chewing the fat with an old fellow like me. And besides, I've got some fish to catch.”

Stu saw the younger man off then gathered his rod and tackle from the shed and made his way down the long flight of stone steps to the water. He was loading everything into the old aluminum rowboat when the Pilon kids from next door sidled onto the dock. They were dressed in identical blue bathing suits. The older one asked what he was doing.

“Well now, I'm getting set to go fishing. There's a big old bass out there just waiting to be caught.”

“Can we come?” She'd told him her name a couple of times, but he couldn't think of it now. She sure did make him think of Joanie when she was a kid. “We've never been fishing.”

“Aw, you're better off staying here with your mom.”

“She's gone shopping.” The smaller one spoke up. She was
about five, Stu guessed. “Sarah's the boss of me until she gets back.”

Stu wasn't really listening. He'd forgotten to bring the net down. He'd never be able to land a bass without it, but it was going to mean struggling up that hill again.

“Say, you wouldn't do a favour for an old man, would you? I left my fish net in the shed.”

“Well . . .” Sarah scrunched her face up and stared up the hill.

Oh, boy, he could see it coming. The kid couldn't be more than ten or eleven, but she was a born negotiator. Stu knew that from previous encounters. Just the other day he'd had a run-in with her about riding her bike through his tomato plants. He'd asked her to stop, and she'd given him a big song and dance about him not being the boss of her.

She had her hands on her hips right now. “We might get it. But only if you take us fishing with you.”

“We're bored,” chimed in the little one. “We got nothing to do.”

He weighed the pros and cons of having to put up with two kids in a boat against the prospect of climbing that hill.

“Okay. But you better run over and tell your mother.”

“Don't you listen to anything?” Sarah rolled her eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. “We told you, Mom's gone to the village. I'm in charge, and I say it's fine.”

The two girls ran for the stone steps, their bare legs flashing in the pre-storm light.

Once he got them settled in the boat, Stu fired up the old Evinrude outboard motor and crossed to the other side of the lake. He tried casting, but the girls kept shifting in their seats, throwing off his aim. He had to shush them, explaining that bass have good hearing and would be scared away by their high-pitched squabbling.

“I'm bored,” the little one complained.

“Well, boring's what fishing's all about. You shouldn't have come if you didn't want to sit still.”

Her bottom lip quivered, and Stu relented. “Tell you what, there's a place I haven't been to for a coon's age. It's kind of hidden away. But I'm pretty sure I could find it again.” Stu smiled at the memory of long-ago trips to Mosquito Creek with Joanie and Franklin. They used to love scrambling down the water-washed boulders where the upper lake spilled into the creek.

“Take us there. Please!” Both girls began to chant, “Please, please, please.”

Stu looked over at the clouds mounting above the northern shore. The leaves were turning in the quickening breeze. “It's going to rain for sure.”

But the girls only increased the volume. “Please, please, please.”

Stu turned away to start the motor, but the chanting was getting on his nerves. He gave it too much gas and flooded it. “Joanie! Stop that this instant,” he shouted.

Sarah looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Who's Joanie?”

He was startled and a little frightened. What in the world had made him say that? “She's my daughter. I just got mixed up for a minute.” He pulled the rope, and the motor caught. “Hold on. We'll be there soon.”

The outlet from Mosquito Creek was concealed by acres of reeds. You had to know the route through the five-foot high vegetation to find it at all. Stu turned off the motor, lifted the prop out of the water and let the boat drift until he found a small gap. It had filled in considerably since he'd last been here, but he managed to pull the boat through with his hands. Once past the shallow mouth of the creek, he fitted both oars in the locks and rowed past floating clumps of lily pads. He
asked Sarah to lean over the bow and yell if she saw any stumps or deadheads in their path. When they got to the waterlily meadow, he cast his line, and almost immediately a bass hit the lure. The girls screeched with excitement as Stu struggled to get the net under the flailing fish and haul it in. He grabbed it under the gills, yanked the hook out of its mouth with pliers and dropped it onto the floor where it thrashed, flapping against the seats and sides of the boat. Laughter turned to screams as the girls cringed together in the bow. “Get it out of here,” one of them demanded. He'd forgotten which was which. “Throw it back in the water.”

“I'm not throwing it back. I promised Belle I'd bring a big one back for supper.” Stu looked up and realized the younger one was now crying in earnest. “Tell you what. I'll kill him, and then he won't bother you.” He stood up and pounded the butt end of an oar onto the bass's head. It twitched a couple of times and then lay still.

“Gross! I'm going to throw up.” The older one started making retching noises.

Stu was seriously rattled. “Here's what we'll do. I'll let you kids off at the waterfall. You always have fun there, don't you, Joanie?”

He started the motor again, driving the boat into the tall grasses at the base of the rushing water and helping the girls to step out onto land. Fat raindrops began splashing off their bare arms and dark blue circles appeared on their bathing suits. “All right, you and Franklin play here for a while, and I'll see if I can catch another fish before the rain starts in earnest. I'll be back before you know it.”