Seaweed on the Street (5 page)

Her eyes turned to the thing impaled on my pencil. Her poise returned and she said, “What's that you've got in your hand?”

It was a tough question. I resisted a temptation to become lost in the interstices of thought and tackled it head-on. “It's an effigy,” I said bluntly. “A Native shaman made it out of bulrush stalks. Grass effigies are almost universal. In England they're made out of wheat stalks and are called corn dollies. I found this example in Mr. Hunt's room.”

“Corn dollies? Shaman? What the hell? … Here,” she said and held out her hand. “Let me have it.”

I moved the effigy beyond her reach and shook my head. “Sorry, Miss Williams, touching it may not be a very good idea. Come with me, please.”

I walked around to the back of the house and dropped the effigy into the garden incinerator, along with the pencil. Miss Williams and I watched them burst into flames.

She said, “I hope you've got a good explanation for destroying my uncle's property.”

“It's property that Mr. Hunt never knew he had. Believe me, your uncle wouldn't thank the man who planted it on him.”

“Perhaps so. But I want answers.”

The rush effigy and the pencil had turned to ashes.

I said, “How much time have you got?”

“Oh, God. I
do
hope you're not going to be tiresome,” she said wearily. “I'm really not ready to hear another litany of Native grievances, going back generations. I'm
sorry
that your ancestors were wiped out by smallpox. I'm
sorry
about the residential schools fiasco. I
deplore
the ancient theft and the modern clear-cutting of tribal lands, all right? Now just simply answer my question or I'll phone your supervisor and have
him
explain it to me.”

“I suggest you go into the house and get dressed. I'm not going anywhere just yet. We can take this matter up again later.”

She turned on her heel without speaking and walked to the house. She'd impressed the hell out of me. Sarah Williams possessed in abundance that air of well-bred self-containment for which middle-class posers strive in vain.

≈ ≈ ≈

Dr. Cunliffe was seated beneath a patio umbrella by the pool. He had a large vacuum flask of coffee beside him and seemed cheerfully indifferent to the many wasps buzzing around a tray of doughnuts. He pointed at the flask. I nodded and he poured me a cup.

The sun was already hot enough to fry eggs, but the pool looked cool and inviting. Dr. Cunliffe guessed my thoughts and said hospitably, “If you feel like a swim, go ahead. You'll find swimsuits and towels in that cabana over there.”

“Thanks, but I'll pass this time.” I tasted the coffee and said, “Mr. Hunt wants to involve me in a private search for Marcia Hunt.”

“Yes, he told me. Is that within your mandate?”

“Possibly. It might be a bit of a stretch, but on the other hand, nobody has fully defined the duties of a neighbourhood cop. I get dragged into all kinds of private mischief.”

“Lucky you. But this is a waste of your time. Marcia's dead.”

“Mr. Hunt doesn't think so.”

“He does, but he won't accept it.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because I know Marcia. I knew her from infancy. As a little kid, Marcia was hell on wheels, but she's a Hunt. That means she inherited a love for money and power. She would have been back here years ago if she were alive.”

“Mr. Hunt didn't say much that was really useful. He fell asleep after telling me about naughty Marcia's tattoo.”

“Calvert tells everybody. I think he was secretly proud of Marcia's rebellious streak. It was a trait he thought she got from him. But Mrs. Hunt took the tattoo as a personal insult. Wanted me to remove it surgically against the girl's will.” The thought made Dr. Cunliffe frown. “I refused, thank God, but I did worse things later. Things I'm ashamed of now.” He flapped his hands at the wasps and offered me doughnuts from the silver tray.

Dr. Cunliffe said guardedly, “I don't suppose anything was said about Marcia's committal?”

My mouth was full of chocolate doughnut. I shook my head.

“Marcia was headstrong. If she got an idea into her head you couldn't move it. From an early age she was just an unhappy little rich kid. She hated her boarding school but was forced to go. The Hunts never listened to her complaints. They expected her to do what she was told and keep quiet. Marcia detested most of the
proper
girls she had to associate with. Girls who were the daughters of Mrs. Hunt's Junior League friends.” He grinned icily. “Marcia was the first person to shake Calvert's absolute belief in the power of money. Until Marcia reached puberty, he thought money could buy anything.”

I raised my shoulders an inch, thinking about that poor little rich kid, born with every advantage. A healthy, good-looking girl who spent her summers at a cottage by a lake and her winter vacations skiing, but who liked to hang around on street corners with people who had nothing.

Dr. Cunliffe said, “When Marcia was little, Calvert gave her everything she wanted. Then she was suddenly 14 years old and they had a spoiled monster on their hands.”

A cloud of starlings landed on one of the oak trees, their combined weight sagging a sturdy branch.

Dr. Cuncliffe looked at the starlings and said, “At heart, Calvert is a roughneck. He was born poor. Calvert scrapped his way to the top. He battled with unions, governments, competitors. And he had virtually no schooling. For years, even after he became a billionaire, he'd go to his office in plaid shirts and caulk boots. Don't get me wrong. Calvert is a clever, ingenious man. But he has no patience with theorists. I told him that Marcia needed psychotherapy but he laughed at the idea. If she'd been born a male, Calvert would have put her to work in one of his sawmills. Or she might have gone off to sea in one of his lumber freighters, knocked about a bit. Sowed the wild oats, then settled down. But Marcia was a girl and a girl's options were limited back then. Instead of running off to sea she married a biker. A fellow called Frank Harkness.”

“More fool her,” said a voice behind us.

Charles Service had walked across the grass and arrived unheard.

Service sat down and said, “As soon as Mr. and Mrs. Hunt found out, they did everything they could to have the marriage annulled.”

The doctor nodded in reluctant agreement and said, “They tried, and failed. The courts wouldn't intervene. The bottom line is that, while still a teenager, Marcia cleared off for several weeks. She came home with a motorcycle ruffian and introduced him as her husband.” He frowned and added, “Marcia was also pregnant.”

Service shook his head, not in denial, but in reaction to the memory.

Dr. Cuncliffe said, “That was the final straw for Mr. and Mrs. Hunt. After a family conference it was decided that Marcia's pregnancy be terminated.”

I said, “How did Marcia respond to that?”

Dr. Cuncliffe's eyes were bleak. He said, “Marcia wanted the child. When told she'd have to give it up, she was prostrated. Frantic with grief.”

I tried to consider these facts without rancour and conceal my disgust. A Salish's first priority is to take care of his family. To injure a relative is to violate the most sacred of tribal taboos. It is the kind of thing that witches do. I said, “The forced abortion. Was that legal?” I cocked an eye at both men in turn. The doctor watched the starlings. Service frowned.

Cuncliffe answered first. “What we did was immoral and stupid. I'm ashamed of my part in it.”

“Now look here … ” began Service, but the doctor interrupted.

“We've gone through this a hundred times, Charles. We were wrong, there's no getting around it.”

Impatience rose in Service's voice. “It's easy to be wise after the event. Mrs. Hunt was raging. Half crazy with panic and anxiety. She wanted Marcia to marry into her own class. Frank Harkness belonged to a criminal gang. He had a police record, for God's sake!”

I said, “A record for what?”

“He'd been arrested for trafficking and possession more than once. He could afford good lawyers, though, and kept getting off,” Service said. “He did serve three months for assault causing bodily harm.”

Cuncliffe said quickly, “That sounds worse than it is. Harkness was a rough diamond, no question. The man Harkness assaulted was a pusher. Harkness smoked dope and probably sold it too, but the police were wise to him.”

“What police? I'm a cop. I never heard Frank Harkness's name before today.”

“Harkness was from up-island, Wellington. Not Victoria. Rode around on a big Harley Davidson, dressed in black leather and asking for trouble. The Mounties gave it to him.”

“That's baloney,” said Service. “You're too lenient. Harkness wasn't just messing around with a bit of marijuana. He owned a chemical factory. He was brewing speed by the gallon. Marcia was probably on it when she brought him to this house.”

Dr. Cuncliffe said, “Let me tell you something, Silas. You can listen too, Charles, because it's something you've never acknowledged. Calvert didn't object to the marriage because Frank Harkness was a roughneck. It was because Harkness was a kindred spirit. He was a tough, hard-nosed man who wouldn't bend his knee.”

Service shrugged. “Maybe. You're entitled to your opinion. But the main point is, Marcia went to bed with this biker, got pregnant, and they were married. False documents were used to procure the union. In my opinion, they were never legally joined.”

Dr. Cuncliffe opened his mouth to argue the point, then thought better of it.

I remembered something and said, “You spoke earlier, Doctor, about a committal?”

Cuncliffe's face hardened. “Yes,” he said, uncomfortably crossing and recrossing his legs. “We decided to have Marcia removed from circulation. Taken off the streets and away from Harkness. I arranged to have her committed to the mental hospital. The idea was to terminate the pregnancy and to wean Marcia off drugs while lawyers argued whether she was really married or not. It was a stupid idea and I'm ashamed of it. There was nothing wrong with Marcia, either mentally or physically, and we all knew that. She was just an unhappy young woman.”

Service didn't like that. His lower lip went under his teeth, and his chest rose and fell rapidly with his breathing. “That is a medical
opinion
, it is not a medical
fact
. Two of your colleagues … ”

“For God's sake!” Dr. Cuncliffe exploded. “Let's be honest!” He turned to me. “The medical fraternity is like the legal fraternity or a plumbers' union. It's a club for people with similar prejudices. I telephoned two of my colleagues, described Marcia's history, her actions and her mental state, and I strongly suggested that she was certifiable. My colleagues agreed immediately and without reservation. Marcia was committed to hospital that same night.”

I said, “Did that abortion go ahead as planned?”

“No,” Service said. “There was no abortion because Marcia escaped. Nobody has seen or heard from her since.”

“You're forgetting this,” said Dr. Cuncliffe, reaching into a pocket. He handed me a postcard and added, “This arrived a few weeks after Marcia disappeared. I dug it out when I learned why you were coming here today.”

The postcard was an advertising freebie. One side of the postcard showed a photograph of five musicians clustered around a seated pianist. A sign on the piano top identified the group as the RayBeams Orchestra. I turned the card over. It was addressed to Dr. Cuncliffe and had been mailed from Seattle. The message, written in faded blue ink, read:
“Dear Doc, I'm feeling better now, resting up and thinking things over. Maybe I'll see you in a couple of months.”
The card was signed, “
Marcia
.”

I said, “Let me get things straight. When Marcia came home with this biker, Frank Harkness, there was a family council consisting of you two and Marcia's parents?”

“The council also included Phyllis Williams, the late Mrs. Hunt's twin sister,” Service explained. “Phyllis's daughter, Sarah Williams, was swimming in the pool a few minutes ago.”

I said, “Does Mr. Hunt have any other living relatives?”

“He has no
blood
relations apart from Marcia,” said the lawyer. “Calvert Hunt is the only child of immigrant parents. Phyllis and Sarah Williams are Calvert's only legal kin. They are of course related by marriage, not blood.”

“Who will benefit from Mr. Hunt's estate?”

Service said reluctantly, “Most of it goes to a foundation. A sizable amount goes to the Williamses.”

“How much is a sizable amount?” I asked. Service frowned at the question but said, “Phyllis will inherit about $50,000. Sarah gets a million, plus this house.”

I said, “And if Marcia is found?”

My question hung in the air.

Service said, “Marcia left the family in bitterness and anger. The Hunts disinherited her to prevent Harkness from getting his hands on any Hunt money. If Marcia ever shows up, Mr. Hunt would probably change his will. As his lawyer, I'd certainly advise it.”

I said, “But if Mr. Hunt dies tomorrow, Sarah Williams will be a rich woman?”

“I'm rich already,” said an amused voice.

It was Sarah Williams. I didn't pay much attention to her clothes. They had probably been made by Chanel or some other Parisian haute couturier, but on the whole I'd liked it better when she was wearing her bikini. When she sat down and crossed her legs I could see almost as much as I wanted to see, and she knew it.

The other men stood up politely. I stood up too, more slowly, because I hated to lose the view, even for 10 seconds.

Service said awkwardly, “I'm sorry, Sarah. I had no idea you were listening.”