Murder on the Thirteenth (5 page)

As he listened, his smile vanished, his brow wrinkled. His
face assumed the worried, perplexed look it wore when his car wouldn't start.

“Just a minute,” Jake said. “I think you'd better talk to the Boss.”

It was an unusually quiet Saturday evening when the Tretheways had only one guest. Cynthia Moon had visited Addie in the afternoon to discuss the planting of an indoor herb garden and stayed on for dinner. The two sat now in the small front parlour comparing the merits of lemon balm and periwinkle. Tretheway half-reclined across from them in his oversize chair, puffing on a large cigar and reading the late edition of the
Fort York Expositor.
He was midway through a news report about a Canadian coastal command bomber scoring a direct hit on a Boche submarine when Jake came back from the phone.

“It's for you,” Jake said. “Sergeant Wan Ho.”

Tretheway grunted unhappily, not because he didn't like Wan Ho, but because he had to go through the ordeal of rising prematurely from the comfort of his easy chair. The other three strained sympathetically as they watched 280 pounds of the law push himself forward, ashes and newspaper rolling down his front to the carpet, and finally rise, puffing and red-faced, to his height of six foot five.

“Bloody chair.” Tretheway left the room.

Addie looked a question at Jake.

“One of the boys found a rabbit in Gore Park,” Jake offered.

“Hardly worth a phone call.”

“In a tree,” Jake went on.

“Alive?” Cynthia Moon asked.

“Jake shook his head.

“Oh dear,” Addie said.

Nothing more was said until Tretheway came back into the room. He lowered himself into his chair, more easily than he had risen from it, recovered the newspaper from
the floor and flipped through the pages looking for his U-boat story.

“Albert,” Addie interrupted.

Jake winced at the use of Tretheway's given name. Tretheway grunted.

“What did the Sergeant want?”

“Nothing special.” Tretheway found his story.

“What about the rabbit?” Addie persisted. “The dead rabbit in the tree?”

Tretheway looked at Jake. Jake smiled weakly.

Tretheway laid the newspaper on his chest. “One of the beat constables at Central found a rabbit hanging in a tree.”

“Hanging?”

“By the neck.”

“Now, what kind of person would hang a dead animal in a tree?” Addie asked.

“Addie,” Tretheway paused. “They think it was alive when they hanged it.” He paused again. “You might as well know. It was mutilated. Missing a foot.”

Addie gasped.

“Left hind?” Cynthia asked.

“Yes.” Tretheway looked at Cynthia Moon. “How did you know?”

“That's the one they usually cut off.”

“They?” Tretheway said.

“Whoever performed the ceremony.”

“Usually?” Addie said.

“That's considered the lucky foot.”

“Now hang on, Cynthia,” Jake interrupted. “Are you trying to tell us that some sort of ritual took place in Gore Park? In the middle of the night?”

“Probably midnight.” Cynthia looked at Tretheway. He nodded.

Jake leaned back into the sofa. Addie fiddled with her
apron. Tretheway thought about Hickory Island but decided not to bring it up.

“What's so special about rabbits?” he said to Cynthia.

Theatrically, Cynthia covered the lower half of her face with a black shawl. Her voice dropped to a kind of growl. “Witches travel by night in the shape of hares.”

Addie's eyes widened in alarm.

“Oh, Addie.” Cynthia dropped her shawl and squeezed Addie's knee. “I'm only kidding.”

Addie laughed nervously.

“Cynthia.” Tretheway put his newspaper on the floor and leaned forward. “Honestly, ifyou know anything that might help…”

“All right. I shouldn't joke about it.” Cynthia fumbled for her favourite amulet. She clutched it in both hands and stared at the ceiling with her eyes tightly shut.

Addie and Jake looked at each other, then at Tretheway. He swiftly stilled any potential interruption by raising a stubby forefinger to his lips. Outside, the February wind rose, flicking the frozen tips of the juniper bushes against the frosted parlour window panes. Fat Rollo waddled in silently and lay down at Cynthia Moon's feet.

“The evil eye,” she began finally. “Malocchio. The basis and origin of the magical arts.” Cynthia held her stone beetle at arm's length. “This is a talisman to ward off the evil eye. To attract a fascinator. A rabbit has a natural protection against Malocchio because it's born with its eyes open.” She lowered her hands to her lap, still clutching the scarab. “And it's fast. Changes directions quickly. Stands up like a human. Destroys crops. The Ancients believed there were magical powers in rabbits' hind feet because they touched the ground ahead of the front feet.”

Her voice dropped, and she continued slowly. “Hence, a left hind foot, cut off a freshly-killed rabbit at midnight becomes a powerful charm…” She stopped and checked
her audience. She thought she had probably said enough. Jake and Addie looked hypnotized. Tretheway was biting his cigar. Cynthia carefully rearranged her beads. She coughed self-consciously. The loudest noise in the room was Fat Rollo's wheezing.

Jake leaned back and broke the silence. “How about some euchre? And some nice big cheese-and-onion sandwiches?” He smiled at Addie. Addie brightened.

“And perhaps some beer,” she suggested.

Tretheway brightened.

M
ary Dearlove's husband, Ferdinand L. Dearlove, Member of Provincial Parliament, had died of natural causes in 1938. Even though there was enough money for her not to work, Mary decided to go back to her first love, her university major—Journalism. She wanted to be a police reporter. She finally landed a job on the
Fort York Expositor,
but because of her background-old family, private school, MPP's wife, etc.—the editor assigned her, logically, to the society desk. For the past few years, she had covered weddings, funerals for the locally famous, church teas, war bond extravaganzas and New Year's day levees for both the Royal FY Light Infantry and City Hall. Although she still harbored dreams of the big scoop, Mary Dearlove wrote an entertaining, intelligent society column. This month her assignment highlight was taking place on Saturday evening, the thirteenth; it was the Annual Fort York Policemen's Ball.

Addie had spent a rare afternoon at the beauty parlour and now, in the early evening, she stood before the hall mirror checking her coiffure. “Oh, dear.” She tugged and pulled at the tight-fitting bodice of her new electric blue party dress.

“I don't know,” she said to her reflection.

“Addie. You look great.” Jake beamed with admiration. He looked over her shoulder at his own image; the dark uniform fresh from the dry cleaners, knife-edge crease in the pants, thin scarlet seam, black dress shoes and a touch of
paddy green in the good conduct medal on his chest. His polished silver buttons sparkled against the deep navy of his tunic. He carried his hat and white gloves.

“Good-looking couple,” Jake said.

Addie smiled.

“Where are my gloves?” Tretheway was banging cupboard doors in the kitchen. “They were here a minute ago. Now they're gone. Nevermind. Someone put them on the ice box.”

Jake and Addie exchanged glances. Tretheway entered the hall. “We should be going.”

“We're late already,” Gum said, rocking from one foot to the other with his coat on. He had walked over earlier as planned, to share a ride with the Tretheways and Jake in one of the several black-crested sedans pressed into service by the city for special occasions. Tonight, Jake was looking forward to driving a 1939 four-door Buick. He held the back door open for Addie. Gum eased in beside her. Jake, of course, slid behind the wheel while Tretheway squeezed himself into the roomy passenger seat—the only place he felt comfortable in a car.

“Got everything?” Tretheway stared straight ahead.

“Yes, sir.” Jake patted the bulky paper bag beside him.

“Let's go,” Tretheway said, still without turning his head.

The night was mostly clear but bitterly cold. A steady north wind swirled flakes of old and new snow across the windshield and long hood of the car. The wide white-walled tires crunched noisily as Jake guided the heavy machine through the ruts of the unploughed side streets.

The Policemen's Ball, the largest social function before the weather began to soften, was well attended; it gave everyone a chance to escape the winter blahs that seemed to hang on at this time of year and the persistence of police officers, Tretheway included, in selling tickets
guaranteed a large turnout. This was apparent in the lineup of cars Jake joined in front of the Fort York Arms.

Tretheway looked in his side mirror. He noticed a car pulling up behind — a little bigger than theirs, a little grander, with an impressive city-crested flag flying on the fender.

“That has to be Zulp,” Tretheway said.

Jake adjusted his rear-view mirror. “It is. The chief himself.”

The lights blazed merrily under the ornate marquee as Tretheway and his party alighted from the luxury vehicle. Jake reluctantly handed over the keys to, he thought, a too-young, too-eager valet parker. They all waved at the car behind.

Luke Dimson was in his glory. What with opening and closing car doors, assisting matrons out of the deep pile seats and escorting them through the elaborate revolving brass doors, he hardly had time to blow his whistle.

The scene in the lobby was even more festive. People milled about shaking hands with old acquaintances they hadn't seen since the last ball and loudly greeting those they had talked to only yesterday. Police uniforms dominated, but mingled with the Armed Forces and, Tretheway quipped, “a sprinkling of firemen”. All colourful dress uniforms, formal tuxedos and tails had been mothballed in deference to the war. Colours showed mainly in the ladies' attire. The blue of Addie's taffeta, the shimmering, fuchsia sequined dress that clung to the athletic body of Zoë Plunkitt, the wildly-hued peasant garb of Cynthia Moon and the golden, queenly radiance of Mary Dearlove's rustling silk suit showed up brightly against the sea of drab uniforms and business suits. Patricia Sprong wore the dark blue of the Salvation Army.

Music could barely be heard above the babble of conversation. It drifted down the wide circular staircase
from the mezzanine where King Chauncey, accordion virtuoso, and his seven Merry Knights enthusiastically supplied music from the cavernous Crystal Ballroom.

“Why don't we go directly to the table?” Addie suggested.

“Good idea,” Tretheway said. “I'll check the coats.” He looked at Jake. “You watch the refreshments.” Jake tightened his grip on the large paper bag.

Halfway up the carpeted stairway Jake stumbled. Tretheway's huge white-gloved hand cut quickly and painfully under Jake's armpit. It steadied him the rest of the way up.

“Now let's get to the table before you drop the bloody bag,” Tretheway said. Addie frowned at her brother.

They pushed their way through the crowded mezzanine toward the main ballroom, waving and shouting greetings to old friends. Their progress was interrupted twice before they reached the table—once by Sergeant Wan Ho, who kissed Addie lightly on the cheek, shook hands all round and bowed ceremoniously in his best Charlie Chan imitation. Jake bowed back. Tretheway smiled. The three never missed a Charlie Chan movie and knew the detective's treasury of proverbs by heart. They often argued about which was the best picture and who made the best Chan. Tretheway favoured Warner Oland while Jake and Wan Ho preferred the later pictures with Sidney Toler. Tretheway rated Wan Ho as the most efficient plainclothesman on the Fort York force.

The second interruption was Dr. Nooner. The doctor, a Fort York native and the official Police Force physician, was a regular at Tretheways'. He served the same role with the Firemen, the FY Tagger Football Club, the elected representatives on the city council and the draft board. This way of life gave him little time for his own patients, which did not displease him. Doc Nooner greeted the Tretheway party warmly and, as usual, loudly.
He wagged the forefinger of one hand, while cradling a drink with the other, to warn them dramatically about the evils of drink and overeating. His head was moon-shaped and hairless; he had a chubby smile. And although he was much shorter than Tretheway, their potbellies still touched when they spoke to each other.

At the table Jake thankfully put down the unwieldy bag of refreshments.

“Anyone for a drink before I hide it?” he asked.

Tretheway winced. He still felt embarrassed at having to break the law. Because of the Province's archaic liquor laws, the hotel was not allowed to sell alcohol. (The hotel more than made up for loss of revenue by charging a king's ransom for ginger ale, soda water, ice, peanuts, party hats, toy horns, etc.) The venerable Fort York Arms, like all similar establishments, looked the other way while law-abiding celebrators guiltily slid their goodies under their tables. Jake's bag held a quart of Scotch for Tretheway, who had to forego his Molson's Blue as just too cumbersome, a mickey of Canadian rye for Jake and Addie, a small dark rum slipped in by Gum and two bottles of Addie's home-made dandelion wine.

The scene, with varying bag contents, was repeated at each table. And each table seated eight. At the Tretheways', Geoffrey Beezul and Zoë Plunkitt acknowledged their arrival with raised glasses of premixed martinis. The Zulps were to occupy seats seven and eight but were still socializing enroute. At the adjacent table, also filled because of Tretheway's aggressive ticket selling, were the six other ARW's. They were all seated except for Mary Dearlove, who was away ostensibly gathering tidbits for her next week's column. The remaining two seats awaited Doc Nooner and Sergeant Wan Ho.