Murder in a Cold Climate: An Inspector Matteesie Mystery (25 page)

“After that Christian and Batten didn't waste any time. Within an hour or two they took the money and flew out of there. All Bonner told me—that's another shit, Bonner, I wouldn't mind killing—was we were to sit tight and they'd be back if it blew over, and if it didn't at least Bonner and I would be in the clear and we'd meet later somewhere and plan what to do next or anyway split the money.”

Another long, long, pause. Snow blowing outside. Smokey howling awhile, then shutting up. The sound of a wolf howling back.

“Like I said,” William went on, “stupid. Since my Dad was killed I've had a lot of time to think. I could even have been, maybe not like him, but at least better than I was. I could have said to myself a year ago, ‘William, you're wasting your goddamn life,' and told those guys to deal me out. I could have gone back to Fort Norman, even, and married Cecilia Manicoche . . . She and I . . .”

This time he seemed to be finished. He had poured it all out.

After a while I said, “You know they'll probably be out for me. They know where I am and it's been all day since I checked in. They'll be wondering.”

He just waved one hand at what was going on outside the window. “Nobody's flying or even snowmobiling in this . . .” Which seemed likely true.

Then he said, “I still can't figure out how my father knew. A rumor, okay. There's always rumors. But knowing I was part of it.”

I thought of Gloria, in love with a man who treated her gently, listening with growing despair that early morning at the Finto Inn as he talked big about a drug bust coming up in Inuvik, and finally deciding she had to warn him that unless he could head it off William would be one of the busted.

I pictured that scene as I imagined it, a weeping woman and a man shocked into numbness, but I kept quiet.

The storm was still raging in the morning when William dug up the money and left on his new snowmobile. Within a few seconds he disappeared in what looked like wall-to-wall white out. He hadn't asked me to give him a few hours, or a day, or anything, before I radioed for help. He just left.

I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do right then, except make some tea and wait. If I went out in this stuff maybe I could and maybe I couldn't find my way back to the river and get the radio and let the whole “G” division of the RCMP know that Christian and Batten were dead, William on the run to God knows where, Matteesie okay. I decided it could wait until I felt more like it.

I was still in the Cessna about noon, the storm dwindling away. I was thinking seriously about the snowmobile and the radio, when I heard the sound of dogs. Smokey set up a tremendous uproar outside. The other dogs were getting closer. Then I saw Edie's team plunging down the hill, Edie riding the runners at the back of the komatik. She had the brakes on, the lead line loose around her neck. They reached the flat surface of the pond. I heard her yell, “Whoa!”

On the komatik, on his own little sled, was No Legs. I jumped out of the Cessna while Edie's dogs flopped in their tracks, tongues lolling, panting. She ran to me and hugged me, No Legs poling himself along behind, both with parka hoods over their faces, the fringes as well as No Legs' moustache and Edie's eyebrows rimed with frost from their breaths. They'd left Fort Norman the previous morning. Edie's talk with Pengelly about what was happening out here made her decide there was no way she was going to miss the playoffs. She'd arranged a few days off picked up No Legs, and here they were.

“You mean you ran all night?”

I was sure they hadn't. No dog team could. “You think we're crazy?” she said. “Even
my
lead dog can't trail in that kind of storm.”

So they had made camp. They both looked none the worse for wear. Or even somewhat the better for wear.

“Hey!” she said. “You been listening to the radio?” Hold her mine wasn't around right now.

“They picked up Bonner in Calgary,” she said.

Maxine's long black hair lay spread out on the pillow. I confess that I felt rather dreamy.

“You really got here fast,” she said. “I hear in the afternoon that the mighty five feet six Matteesie has done it again, bodies all over the place, and I get home and who is here but the mighty five feet six Matteesie.”

“Unfortunately not five feet six where it really counts,” I said modestly. “Anyway, when they sent Stothers out for me they wanted me to go nonstop to Yellowknife for debriefing. I held out for Inuvik.”

“Have you been debriefed?”

I held up the covers and looked. “I must have been. Don't see any briefs at all down there.”

It was near midnight and we'd had a few drinks and what other amenities seemed appropriate to the occasion.

She didn't ask how long I'd be staying. I always had to tell her on my own.

“I fly out tomorrow for Ottawa,” I said. “I'll be back sometime.”

She just nodded. No urging to make it soon. That was her way. No heat.

In Ottawa, Lois was waiting for me in the airport. She was wearing her calf-length silver fox coat. I always thought this coat was a little excessive, for a wife of a simple inspector in the RCMP.

She hugged me a lot and got lipstick on me, but I didn't wipe at it. At least when cameras were running. In addition, she'd had her hair done a sticky new way. When my cheek brushed against it, I knew all the trouble she'd gone to.

When we got home the two Siamese cats, Murph and Surf (not what I called them), rubbed against my legs and sniffed suspiciously. As soon as Lois disappeared, I shoved them away with my foot. She came back in a peach-colored negligee and sat on the arm of my chair, this done on purpose, I knew, so that I could feel the silken softness. Which I did and suddenly felt a longing for the way we once had been. I put my arm around her and in a few minutes we were upstairs in her incredibly soft bed. In time my mind kept drifting away, so that the bed became a snowbank, and then the snowbank became a bed again.

In one of my conscious periods I realized that I was holding her in one of those ways that meant I wanted her. I rolled toward her, fumbling for the way in.

She pulled back and looked at me: blue eyes, fair hair, lipsticked mouth, a few wrinkles, a sag here and there as I also had.

“You're not just doing this as a favor, are you?” she asked.

“No,” I said honestly.

In the morning I was up early. Among the many things that hadn't changed was that no matter what Lois did the night before, she slept in until I called and said that tea was ready.

While I waited for the water to boil I stood there naked, potbellied, unshaved, unwashed, uncombed, and besides that a little scruffy, and glanced at the piled up mail.

An envelope postmarked MOCKBA caught my eye.

I tore it open and read laborious printing in blue ballpoint, “Dear inspector! With large sad I hear you not come Arctic Institute this time! Bloody bad! I Sibir Eskimo from Chukchi peninsula on Bering Strait! My people forefathers Eskimo your side! I famous like you! Only Sibir Eskimo anytime, anywhere, who colonel KGB! Looking forwards to get with you together for exchanging lies! Now dammit next time sure come!”

I couldn't make out his signature but someone at the office would have a great bloody file on him, so I could reply. Only Siberian Eskimo KGB colonel—wow! Maybe we could form an association.

The water boiled. I put in three heaping teaspoons of Earl Grey tea, filled the pot with boiling water, and turned on the radio.

The top item on the CBC radio's seven o'clock “World Report” was from Ireland, the second through fifth from the Middle East, the next three from Ottawa, then one from Washington, and I was thinking great, next come the weather and sports, when there was one from Fort Norman.

William had given himself up, the announcer said, “along with nearly half a million dollars less what he termed ‘traveling expenses.'”

He'd been in the bush somewhere with a cousin from Fort Providence, heading for a trapline in the Mackenzie Mountains where he'd never be found, when he heard about Bonner being picked up. On the spot he'd decided that he badly wanted to be a crown witness, make sure this last survivor of the murder plot did not wriggle free.

A day later, walking into the detachment at Fort Norman, he'd winked at Nicky Jerome, whose mouth had fallen open.

Then William had put the money box on the counter and called to Pengelly, who had his head down over some paper work, “Hi. I'm William Cavendish,” and Pengelly looked up, thinking it was a joke.

 

One of Canada's most beloved journalists,
Scott Young
wrote more than forty-five books in his lifetime. Known primarily for his sports journalism, Young also wrote mysteries, young adult fiction and non-fiction during the course of his career. Born in Cypress River, Manitoba in 1918, Scott Young died in 2005.

 

Murder in a Cold Climate © 1988 Scott Young

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