Seaweed on the Street (29 page)

“You've got it wrong. Marcia Hunt is dead. I've seen her grave. She's buried in … ”

“She's alive, I tell you! I talked to her less'n a month ago.”

I tried to think. I assumed that the woman on Hornby Island was an imposter. Somebody that Fred Eade set up to cash in on the reward. But if that was so, why hadn't the imposter come forward herself?

Patty was still toying with her Styrofoam cup. Little bits of white plastic had fallen onto her lap. She had cut a row of crenellations with her fingernails. The cup resembled a miniature castle.

I said, “Let's have the rest of it.”

“There is no rest. That's it. Marcia Hunt and her daughter live on Hornby Island.”

“What's her daughter's name?”

“Hockey. It sounds dumb, but everybody calls her Hockey.”

“What kind of name is that?”

Patty had the dull, stubborn look of someone who knows she is being disbelieved. “Don't ask me, mister. The whole deal is nuts. Marcia Hunt is a harmless airhead, a space cadet. Her daughter ain't much better. The pair of 'em live on social assistance, earn extra cash picking oysters.”

“These women live openly on Hornby Island?”

“Sure. They've been there for years. Hockey was raised there, everybody knows 'em, they're kind of an island institution. Why don't you go to Hornby, check it out?”

I said, “Who put you on to them?”

“Fred Eade. Fred's known who they are for years.”

“And Fred kept the secret until now?”

“Why not? As far as Fred knew, Frank Harkness's wife and daughter were just ordinary people. He had no idea they were related to Calvert Hunt.”

“Just a minute. Are you telling me that Fred met this woman over there and recognized her?”

Patty shook her head. She had lost that scared look and was warming to her story. “No. See, Frank Harkness, the boss biker, had a double life. Most of the time Frank was hanging out in Wellington with the club. But he had this other life that was secret, personal. He didn't share it with nobody. So none of the bikers were ever introduced to his wife.”

“Then how did Fred recognize her?”

“It's this way. The Wellington bike club used to buy pot on Hornby. Even back then everybody was growing it. Fred was on Hornby Island one time and got talking to this crazy lady. She was admiring Fred's motorcycle and she told him that her husband had been a biker once. Fred said the lady was screwed up, but she had a photograph that she carried around in a purse. Sure enough, when Fred looked at it, it was a photo of Frank Harkness sitting on his Harley outside the Wellington club rooms. Fred was real surprised because he'd expected Frank's wife to be a beauty, you know, a class act. But this woman was a real mess. The story is, Frank's wife fried her brains on some bad acid.”

Patty sounded convincing, and her story was filled with plausible details. I said, “I want to tie this down. This story you're telling me, it isn't second-hand?”

Impatiently she snapped, “What have I gotta do? I told you. I seen those women with my own eyes, I been in their house, I spent time with Hockey and Marcia.”

I changed the topic. “You say that your life is in danger?”

Patty's sullen look returned. “The guy that killed Fred tried to kill me too. Me
and
Sid.”

“What was his motive?”

“I dunno,” she said, avoiding my eyes.

“You must have some idea.”

“There's a lot of funny stuff going down. You don't know the half of it.”

I said, “Has the court set your bail?”

“I was dragged up in front of some kangaroo judge, heard a lot of Mickey Mouse bullshit. The deal is, I don't get out of here without a lawyer.”

“Are they treating you right?”

“Not bad. Wilkie Road isn't no Hyatt Regency, but I slept in worse places. The food is fair, and it makes a change from rocking around in Fred's boat.”

“Are you prepared to tell me where I can find Sidney Banks?”

“No.”

I stood up.

She said plaintively, “Will you talk to Sammy Lofthouse for me?”

“What I want to do first is go to Hornby Island. Speak to these two women. Lofthouse can wait.”

≈ ≈ ≈

I collected my finished prints from the camera shop, then started the short walk to the parking lot behind Swans pub. The heavens opened. Within seconds my hair and shoulders were soaked. I sheltered in a doorway and watched a pair of girls hurrying for a bus stop across the street. Rain gutters overflowed, the streets were flooded. A passing car sent sheets of water flying, splashing the girls from head to toe. Soaked, they shook their fists at the retreating driver, then, looking at each other, they dissolved into helpless laughter. Their bus arrived and hid them from view.

≈ ≈ ≈

Charles Service answered Calvert Hunt's front door himself. He greeted me with a smile and a handshake, then stood aside to let me enter. An inner door opened. Iris Naylor's face showed briefly. Service led the way to his office at the back of the house. I followed wearily, feeling half dead from fatigue, then sank into a chair. Outside, oak leaves littered the lawns, raindrops pocked the swimming pool. Hunt's Chinese gardener, dressed in a long yellow coat, was poking a stick into a drain near the three-car garage. Water dripped from a clogged gutter above a mullioned window and zigzagged down leaded-glass panes.

Service sat on the edge of his big desk, folded his arms and said, “Rotten sort of day, but the forecast is good.”

“Next thing you know it'll be snowing.”

“Snow in Victoria? That'll be the day!” retorted Service.

I took out some of the photographs I had brought from Reno and laid them on Service's desk without speaking. I showed them one at a time, like a card player. Service stared down at them without moving for a moment, then he picked them all up and examined them thoughtfully.

He put them down on his desk and tapped them with his finger. “All right. What are these all about?”

“The younger woman is Alison Harkness Hunt. She's Calvert Hunt's granddaughter. The other woman is Joan Alfred.”

“Who is Joan Alfred?”

“Frank Harkness's sister.”

A faint half-smile tugged at the corners of Service's mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“That's right.”

“Why is there no recent picture of Marcia Hunt?”

“Marcia is dead. She was killed in a freak accident.”

“Ah!” he said, getting up from the desk and crossing to the window to stare outside. During the silence a clock inside the house chimed the hour. The chime seemed to rouse the lawyer from his reverie. He turned and said, “Dead, eh? So that's why she never contacted the family.”

“Obviously.”

“Where did you find these pictures?”

“They were given to me by Alison, Calvert Hunt's granddaughter.”

“But why are there no photographs of Marcia herself? After all, if you can … ”

I took out more pictures and handed them across. Service stared in fascination for almost a minute, then looked at them all again.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “that's Marcia, all right. No question. A little older than I remember her, of course. Her figure has filled out. But what's your proof that the other women are who you say they are?”

“There's plenty of proof. More than enough to convince Calvert Hunt.”

“Maybe. But first you have to convince
me
. We're not disturbing the old man's final years unless the evidence is unassailable.”

“I don't want to tell Mr. Hunt anything, not yet. There are some loose ends. I just wanted to prepare the way.”

“Can I keep these photographs?”

“Yes, you can. But the question is whether you may.” I grinned and added, “Please take good care of them.”

Service shoved them into a desk drawer. “Right. This Alison woman. And Joan Alfred. Where are they now?”

“Nevada. They've been there most of Alison's life.”

“Nevada? I'm surprised to hear it.”

“Why?”

Service shrugged. “I don't know, really. Seems a bleak, hot sort of a place to me, not what Marcia was used to. Still, I expect she followed Frank Harkness, eh?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“How did Marcia die?”

“She owned a little ranch. It's very odd. She was shot and killed by rustlers.”

Service smiled fleetingly. “Well, it's an unusual end but perhaps not unfitting. Marcia was attracted to danger. Were the rustlers captured?”

“Captured and jailed.”

“Her killers will be back on the streets again by now, killing other innocent people. Still, the U.S. Congress favours the death penalty. I wish our gutless Canadian government would do the same. Save the taxpayers' money.”

“Maybe you're right. If they get the guy that killed Fred Eade and the guy that killed Harry Cunliffe, they could bring the hangman back, do a two-for-one special.”

Service said, “Jimmy Scow killed Harry.”

I didn't say anything.

“Well, Seaweed, apparently you've been busy. Perhaps we were too hasty, pulling you off the case.”

“I had some lucky breaks.”

“It took more than luck, but even so, I'm not completely convinced. So far all I've seen are some pictures.”

The telephone on Service's desk began to ring. We both looked at it. Service picked it up reluctantly and listened for a moment without speaking. A spasm of annoyance narrowed his lips and his eyes. “All right,” he snapped. “I'll be there immediately, dammit.” Service slammed the telephone into its cradle and said tersely. “You'll have to excuse me. Wait here, will you?”

He went out. I went behind Service's desk, opened the top drawer and saw the pictures that Service had just put inside. I then closed the drawer and crossed to the windows. The mullions were partially concealed behind heavy brocade curtains with tapestry-cord swags. The windows were fastened by sturdy bronze catches. I looked for security strips on the glass — there weren't any.

Like most of the rooms in the house, this one had a handsome fireplace. There was a smoke detector on the beamed ceiling, but if there were motion detectors or other intruder alarms, I did not see them. I remembered seeing burglar alarms on some of the house's exterior doors.

Apart from a large banker's desk and four high-backed chairs, the room, or office, was sparsely furnished. One wall was filled with Service's law books. There were a couple of ordinary steel four-drawer filing cabinets, an old-fashioned floor safe and a large olive-green steel cabinet that at first sight looked like a table because it was draped with the same brocade as the window curtains. There were several hunting prints and four humorous lawyer cartoons in black frames.

The door opened and a thin elderly woman entered. She was wearing a plum-coloured woollen suit with a blue silk blouse ruffled to conceal her crepey-skinned neck. She had on blue stockings and low-heeled shoes matching the suit. Her figure was stooped and she walked with a silver-handled cane. Behind her came Charles Service, who cautioned me against speaking by holding a finger to his lips.

The woman surveyed me from head to toe and snapped, “So you're the Indian meddler I've been hearing about? I thought you were told to clear off.”

“Now, Phyllis,” said Service soothingly, helping the old woman to a seat. He smiled but was plainly ill at ease.

I remained standing.

“Well,” she continued indignantly, “isn't that right, weren't you told to keep out?”

I nodded affably. “That's correct, Mrs. Williams.”

“How did you know my name?” she said, surprised.

“Because he's a detective. It's his business to know things,” Service said.

“You should never have been brought into this. Waste of time. Marcia has been dead and gone for ages.” Mrs. Williams pulled her chin in and pursed her lips to show disapproval, then said to Service, “It was foolish of you to encourage Calvert.”

“Did I encourage him?” Service smiled uneasily.

“Perhaps not,” she said, then added, “But you didn't do all that you could to discourage him either. After all, you're his lawyer, he listens to you.”

Service's grin slipped. “He listens to me when it suits him. When it doesn't, well … ”

She was in one of Service's straight-backed chairs. When she tilted her head to look at me, she winced. Pain tightened her features. She stroked her neck. Heavy diamond rings sparkled on knobbly, arthritic fingers. She said to me, “Seaweed. What kind of name is that?”

“An old name,” I said coldly.

“Well, Seaweed. You made no progress at all I suppose?”

I ignored Service's emphatic head-shaking and said, “I traced Marcia to Seattle. Somebody that I spoke to told me that she'd gone to Nevada.”

“Oh? Well, now she's gone to hell I suppose. Marcia was a torment to her mother and to her father. I'll never understand why Calvert wanted to see that ungrateful baggage again. If Marcia were alive, she'd be here now, making his life miserable with her wickedness.”

The high whine of ancient spite was unmistakable, uttered without regard for the feelings of those present.

“Now Phyllis, don't go upsetting yourself,” said Service, shaking his head and speaking in a mock-serious voice. He turned to me and nodded pointedly toward the door.

I smiled, wished them good day and departed. Service followed me out into the passage and said, “These things we've been talking about. I hope you'll keep them under your hat. We don't want to set the cat among the pigeons unnecessarily, do we?”

I grinned to myself. Service was a creature of habit. Whenever he became anxious, he resorted to cliché.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I went to Dr. Cunliffe's house. He answered the door immediately and led me to his den.