Seaweed on the Street (28 page)

“Sure. Fred Eade's girlfriend.”

“Yeah? Well if she's his friend, how come she shot him?”

I said, “Did she?”

“Probably, I don't know. Patty says no, but maybe she's lying. Somebody shot him. Patty had motive, opportunity.”

“What was her motive?”

“Fred was beating her up,” Lofthouse said. “Maybe Patty went downtown and some dyke advised her to shoot the fucker.”

“Sammy, what do you want from me?”

“Reward money. I hear you offered Fred five grand for certain information.”

“Do you have information worth five grand?”

“My client has. I'm acting for her.”

“Goodbye, Sam,” I said, ready to hang up.

“Just give me a minute,” Sammy said urgently. “Let me sort some things out here.”

I could imagine him, a cigar in his mouth, a telephone wedged between his neck and his shoulder, juggling a briefcase full of notes. “Okay,” he said. “This is the deal. My client is smart enough to know that she needs the best lawyer in town, but I don't do pro bonos and Patty is broke.”

“If that's the case, how come Patty's your client?”

“I'm getting to that. Either Patty has some information about a case you're involved with, or she's blowing smoke up my ass. She thinks she can get money from you.”

“Patty gives me the information. You get the reward?”

“Right. You catch on quick.”

“Okay. I'll think about it.”

“Have we got a deal, Silas?”

“You don't have any deal with me. I'm not your client. I'll talk to Patty first, hear what she's got to say. Maybe I'll get back to you.”

I pressed the disconnect and called Calvert Hunt's residence. Iris Naylor answered.

I said, “This is Silas Seaweed. Sorry I'm late returning your call, but I've been out of town.”

Her reply was so long coming that I thought she'd gone. I said, “Hello, are you still there?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Seaweed,” she said apologetically. “If I tell you something, will you keep it confidential?”

“Possibly, but I'm not a newspaper reporter. Cops don't always protect their sources.”

“What about police informers? They're used all the time.”

“Good point. But just so you know. If you tell me something and I need you to repeat it in a court of law, I wouldn't hesitate to subpoena you.”

“Well, I'm sorry, it was probably nothing.”

“Does this have anything to do with Ribblesdale's prowlers?”

“Actually, it does.”

“Then I want you to tell me about it. It could be very important.”

Iris Naylor sighed and said, “I feel quite disloyal. This may sound silly. It's to do with Mr. Service's hairbrushes. Two silver-backed hairbrushes that went missing from this house a few days ago.”

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “Keep talking.”

“That's it, really. We saw something on the grounds here one night. A prowler or a dog. Something. Mr. Service and I were both here at Ribblesdale. Together in the lounge, and whatever it was we both saw it through a window. It's not the first time, of course. But he asked me not to report it to the police.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. But this is what's so strange,” Iris Naylor said breathily. “The very next morning, Mr. Service couldn't find his hairbrushes.”

“Please describe what you saw through the window.”

“I can't describe it. It was a moving shape. Something solid. We could see it flittering or running across the grounds, but we couldn't decide what it was. It definitely wasn't a moving shadow because the thing travelled at least 100 yards across our line of sight before it vanished.”

“How big was it?”

“Again, I'm not sure. It was quite dark and the thing was some distance away. I would say it was bigger than a full-grown golden retriever. Smaller than a donkey.”

“Could it have been a man?”

“It certainly didn't look human to me.”

“Were you frightened?”

“Yes, a little. I certainly wish I'd never seen it. Thinking about it has kept me awake nights.”

“You're suggesting that this shape got into the house and stole a pair of hairbrushes?”

“You're not taking this very seriously, are you?” she said sullenly.

“On the contrary, I'm taking this extremely seriously,” I said and then heard voices in the background when somebody entered Iris Naylor's space.

“Please describe the hairbrushes to me.”

She said in a whisper, “I'm not free to talk at the moment.”

“Is Mr. Service in the house?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“In that case I'd like to speak to him.”

“Of course. I'll connect you.”

A minute elapsed before Charles Service came on. I found myself yawning uncontrollably.

“Hello, Seaweed. What can I do for you?” said Service in a cheerful voice.

“You can prepare Mr. Hunt for some interesting news.”

“What might that be?”

“I know where his long-lost daughter is. I've located his granddaughter.”

I heard Service's quick inhalation, but when he spoke his voice sounded dubious. “That's marvellous, of course, but are you certain?”

“Yes. Do you want to meet me and talk about it?”

“Sure. When can I see you?”

“In a couple of hours.”

“Why not come immediately?”

“I'm afraid that you'll have to wait.”

“Why do I have to wait, what for?”

“That's my business,” I said coldly.

“All right, but come here to Foul Bay Road, quick as you can. Bring any proofs that you've collected.” His voice changed and became conspiratorial as he added softly, “And Seaweed, I hope you've been discreet. You
do
appreciate that Mr. Hunt loathes headlines.”

“Don't worry about it. So far, the only people in this town who know about these things are you and me.”

We both heard the click on the line as somebody replaced a receiver.

Now somebody else knew. Iris Naylor? Sarah Williams? I hung up without commenting.

≈ ≈ ≈

Black storm clouds were hovering above the Sooke Hills when I set out on a five-minute walk to police headquarters. Dew sparkled on the weeds growing in a vacant lot near the Johnson Street bridge. As I waited for a traffic light to change, a girl about 15 trudged ahead against the red light. She had a shaven head and enough body piercings to fill a scrap-yard. The rear half of her midriff was a red Chinese dragon tattoo.

The traffic light turned green. Suddenly I felt weary. I had to force myself on. I stopped at a camera shop on Douglas Street and ordered quick copies of the photographs I'd brought from Reno.

≈ ≈ ≈

“You've been a bad boy,” Bernie said.

“Tell me about it.”

Watery sunlight fell through Bernie's windows, yellowing his head and shoulders. The window had been opened to help ventilate the room. Victoria's police headquarters was new but had already acquired a faint institutional odour of human sweat overlaid with disinfectant. A pigeon alighted on the windowsill. Bernie got up, took a quart can of birdseed from a filing cabinet and scattered a handful on the ledge. The bird cocked its head and surveyed my friend with one tiny brilliant eye, ready for instant flight. It pecked a few seeds, then with another flutter of wings it was gone.

Bernie stayed facing the window, both hands in his pockets. He said, “Summer's going, Silas. It's clouding up. Did you bring your umbrella?”

“Umbrellas are for sissies,” I said.

“Borrow that one in the corner,” said Bernie, sitting down. “Otherwise you'll get soaked.”

“That's very generous of you, Bernie.”

“Don't thank me. Thank the guy who left it here.”

“He won't mind?” I said, going along with Bernie's spiel.

“Not for a while. He's in the crowbar motel. After Bulloch is finished dealing with you, you might be able to deliver it in person.”

I grinned. Bernie grinned too.

Bernie sat down and hitched one knee over the other.

I said, “Is Patty here?”

“Yeah, we brought her in from Wilkie jail. She's in the women's lock-up, biting her fingernails.”

“I can understand she might be a little anxious.”

“She ought to be. Patty's in big trouble.”

“Who are you kidding? The only thing you can stick her with is possession of stolen property. To wit, one green Toyota Corolla. I'm sure she didn't kill Fred Eade.”

“Who did?”

“Look. I'm half asleep, flailing around in the dark. I've got some answers and a lot of riddles. Let me talk to Patty before I keel over.”

He said, “There's a tie-in between the Fred Eade killing, the guy who shot you, and Calvert Hunt. What is it?”

“I'm not quite certain.”

A cold smile brushed his lips. “You're not certain, but you're pretty sure, right?”

“Fred Eade responded to an ad I put in the paper. But Fred's the kind of guy's been making enemies all his life. The town's full of people who would shank him for $5.”

“The town's filling with people who would shank you for 50 cents.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I'm not a politician. It's okay with me if every asshole in town hates me. Why should I care?”

“You don't care if people shoot at you, send you to hospital?” Bernie stood up abruptly. “Fine. You win. Let's go see Patty.”

Bernie marched out of his office and I followed along the corridor. Printers hummed, footsteps echoed. The radio dispatcher's amplified voice could be heard over everything else. Uniformed cops sat at desks piled high with paper. We passed through a frosted-glass door into a public waiting room. A smiling policewoman was behind a desk, accepting a petition from six angry old ladies wearing identical felt hats, shapeless coats and sneakers.

Bernie frowned sourly at the grannies and growled, “This place is turning into a fucking madhouse.”

We took an elevator to the top floor. A jail matron was waiting for us on the wrong side of a barred gate. The matron let us in. Bernie and I walked another long corridor to a small, high-ceilinged interview room. It was like the interview room in Reno; the only thing missing was the feather boa.

Patty Nolan was inside, pacing back and forth, wearing shapeless orange coveralls.

In a loud voice, Bernie told her to sit down at the table. I sat opposite. Bernie leaned in the corner with his arms folded, listening.

She said, “You must be Silas Seaweed.”

“That's right. I saw you once, in Mom's Café. The day I met Fred Eade.”

“Yeah, I seen you too, only I didn't really pay attention to you at the time. It was only later when I got talking to Fred about it that I tried to remember what you looked like.”

Patty slouched in her chair, head forward, holding a half-empty Styro-foam coffee cup. The breezy sexuality that I remembered was gone.

I said, “You called me on the phone a couple of times, but never followed through. Why?”

When she spoke I could barely hear her words. She said, “I'm in a jam, mister. Has he got to be here?”

I looked at her. She drank the remaining coffee and began to poke the Styrofoam cup with long fingernails.

I turned to Bernie. “Give us a few minutes alone?”

Bernie pushed himself away from the wall and went out.

“Just so you know,” I said, “the room's probably bugged.”

“That figures,” she said, with the toneless empty irony of a woman mistreated by men all her life. “I don't trust cops but I ain't afraid neither. They don't have nothing on me and they know it. That stolen car deal is a bum rap. If I had money, I'd be long gone.”

“What do you want to see me about?”

She leaned forward and whispered, “I know where Marcia Hunt and her daughter are.” She sat back to watch my reaction.

I had on my usual stone face. “You're interested in the reward money?”

She said, “I need money to get out of jail. Sammy Lofthouse will handle my case, but he don't do freebies. He wants $5,000 up front and I got nothing.”

I gave it to her straight. “I've got bad news,” I said. “The search for Marcia Hunt is over. We know where she is.” Wearily, I stood up and said, “Sorry. I'll speak to somebody and … ”

“Sure you will!” Patty yelled angrily. “You'll speak to some law student. He'll take me on as a practice case, play pretend lawyer, land me in worse trouble than I am already. To get out of this mess I need the best advice I can get. Don't you get it, mister? I could end up dead.”

“You've been threatened?”

“Why do you think I ran away? The guy that killed Fred will kill me too, if he can. You're the last chance for me. For me
and
Sid.”

“Sidney Banks?”

Hysteria made her voice veer up and down the scale. “Yeah, who else?”

“Sid was the man who spoke to me from a pay phone, has a funny voice?”

“Sid talks funny because half his teeth are missing.”

I said, “I'm very sorry. If you'd reached me with the information earlier, it would have saved me a trip to the States. You might have had the reward. Now it's too late.”

She stared at me with a curious expression. “What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about finding Marcia Hunt's grave, in Nevada.”

“Grave? Marcia Hunt's grave? What kind of deal are you handing me?” she said, obviously puzzled.

Something was out of kilter. I said, “I'm tired. Maybe I'm not thinking straight. Please make this quick. Tell me what you know about Marcia Hunt.”

“Will I get the reward?”

“If you're entitled to anything, I promise you'll get it.”

“All right. Here goes nothing. Marcia Hunt ain't dead. She and her daughter are living together on Hornby Island.”